


Lock and Key

by darknesshadows (FeatheredShadow), estel_willow, Mia_Zeklos, MorganD, prettysosharp, SaadieStuff, shirasade, toromeo (ald0us)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Dreams, M/M, Parabatai, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-10-10 17:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17430479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheredShadow/pseuds/darknesshadows, https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_willow/pseuds/estel_willow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mia_Zeklos/pseuds/Mia_Zeklos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganD/pseuds/MorganD, https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysosharp/pseuds/prettysosharp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaadieStuff/pseuds/SaadieStuff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirasade/pseuds/shirasade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/toromeo
Summary: "With Alec it had been more like a key fitting into a lock, a click of recognition. Something that whispered,Here is someone you already know. Jace had never thought much about reincarnation, though Jem talked about it all the time. But he did sometimes wonder if he'd known Alec in another life."-Queen of Air and Darkness, Cassandra ClareA Jalec round robin. There will be a minimum of 16 chapters, but sign-ups will remain open throughout, if you want to join! (Updates schedule has been adjusted from weekly to fortnightly.)





	1. Alexandros & Yehonathan

**Author's Note:**

> This is a round robin fic, because I've been toying with this reincarnation idea for literally years and thought this could be a fun group activity while we wait for 3b... 
> 
> _In a round robin, participants write a section of a story before passing it onto the next participant, until all participants have taken a turn at writing the story. Sometimes the collaborators have discussed a plot, theme, or desired end result; more often, the round robin is more free-form, with each participant challenged to figure out how to resolve what has been written previously while still leaving room for the next participant._ ([Fanlore](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Round_Robin))
> 
> **You can sign up[here](https://de.surveymonkey.com/r/KGP3C6Y) at any time (details on [Tumblr](https://shirasade.tumblr.com/post/182036047806/jalec-round-robin-1-lock-and-key) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/434347) | [Dreamwidth](https://shirasade.dreamwidth.org/1891400.html))!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly plagiarized myself by revisiting Alexandros and Yehonathan from an old drabble of mine.

The dreams started after Jace had returned to New York with Clary. At first, he tried to get back to normal life, but every night he kept waking, shivering and panting, from dreams of the Owl and Lilith - except in his dreams, it wasn't the demon who committed the atrocities, it was _Jace_ who plunged the blade into his grandmother's body.

Then, after about a week, he woke as before, only to find himself not alone. His parabatai was perched on the side of his bed, concern warm in hazel eyes as he watched Jace struggling to come back to himself.

"Jace, you okay?" Alec's hands were hovering in the air, as if he'd been hesitating to reach out and touch, but his presence alone was enough to help soothe some of Jace's turmoil. Once their eyes met, Alec did lean in in order to rest a comforting hand on Jace's shoulder, the grip of strong fingers an anchor Jace could cling to. "Every single night since your return I’ve been feeling your anguish through our bond, but I wasn't sure if I should wake you."

Swallowing, Jace nodded gratefully, covering Alec's hand with his own. "It's just... dreams."

"Lilith?" Alec asked sympathetically but without overt pity, for which Jace was incredibly thankful. He already felt weak for still struggling so much, even knowing that Lilith and Jonathan could never harm him or anyone ever again. Obviously discerning at least some of Jace's thoughts, Alec shook his head firmly. "No, Jace, don't do this to yourself. You've gone through an unbelievable ordeal, you have to give yourself time to heal."

"You know what the worst thing is, though?" Jace asked, still clinging to Alec's hand like a lifeline. "That they're not just dreams - they're _memories_ , every horrible thing I did as the Owl in terrifying technicolor."

"So maybe you need to get some help," Alec suggested, voice almost unbearably gentle, still withholding judgement, and Jace knew without a doubt that his parabatai would accept and support whatever he decided. 

It was this more than anything else that made him agree, "You're right. Maybe it is time I go to the Silent Brothers."

Alec nodded quietly, and his approving smile warmed Jace all the way through. They remained together for the rest of the night, not really talking, just leaning back against the headrest of Jace's bed, Alec's body a reassuring pressure warming Jace's side. Without planning to, Jace nodded off, and this time there were no dreams.

The next day Jace explained his decision to Izzy and Clary, who both sent him off with warm hugs and encouragement. Having accompanied him to the City of Bones, Alec was visibly reluctant to leave him. Finally Jace pulled his parabatai into an embrace, savoring his strength as always, before pushing him away with a grin. "Go, so they can fix me. I'll see you soon, parabatai."

"Soon," Alec replied firmly. finally leaving with a last look at the Silent Brothers hovering around them. 

Jace wasn't sure what he expected. His only experience of staying here had been during his imprisonment, and the room he was led to was still underground and rather dark - but it resembled a monk’s cell more than a dungeon. It contained a narrow bed, a desk and a drawer, and the Brother who'd led him there left him with a tray of plain but tasty food.

_We will begin in the morning. But do not be afraid of sleep - you will be protected from the nightmares here._

Jace wasn't sure what to make of this promise, but when he finally managed to relax enough to fall asleep, he did not dream of Lilith or the Owl - and back at the Institute, dreams of an entirely different kind found his parabatai as well.

***

Blood colored the sand red, and Alexandros dropped to his knees beside Yehonathan's fallen body the moment it was safe to do so. he cut off a corner of his legionnaire's cloak with his blood-stained sword. He pressed the cloth against the deep gash in Yehonathan's thigh and sent a prayer to Apollo and Asclepius, promising them offerings if they healed his fellow soldier. Hesitating a second, he added a prayer to the strange god of the Jews, not sure if Yehonathan even really believed in him, but wanting to cover all his bases. 

"You owe him; after all, his monster of a father was one of your priests." Alright, so maybe Alexandros wasn't too impressed with the Jewish god after the bits and pieces he'd learned about his friend's childhood - however, as if he'd heard him, right then Yehonathan shifted and opened his eyes with a pained groan. Lightheaded with relief, Alexandros whispered quickly, "Thank you," before adding more loudly, "Yehonathan? Yeho, can you hear me?"

"Alékos - you're a sight for sore eyes, my friend." Yehonathan's voice was strained but steady, much to Alexandros's relief, and his gaze was clear. 

"Same here." Smiling widely, Alexandros helped Yehonathan to sit up, glad when the movement didn't seem to worsen his condition. Pulling off Yeho's cloak, he used it to fasten the makeshift bandage he'd fashioned earlier around his leg. There were healers back at camp, but this would do until then. 

Their eyes met, and Yeho's mouth twitched into a grin. Chuckling, they spoke in unison, "Good thing these are red."

It was an old joke between them, and it made the last of Alékos’s worry disappear. Carefully sliding an arm around Yeho's shoulder, he helped him to his feet, quirking an eyebrow when Yehonathan tried to stand on his own, until he relented and allowed Alexandros to take most of his weight.

Carefully picking their way through the bodies of the fallen, trying to ignore the unavoidable familiar faces among them, they slowly moved towards the vast encampment of the fourth legion on the other side of the hill. Once the soldiers guarding the perimeter caught sight of them, Alexandros gave the password, and they were helped to the healers' tent.

There weren't _too_ many injured there, always a relief, so it wasn't very long before someone came to look at Yehonathan. In the six years since joining up, it wasn't the first time he'd been wounded, and by now no one batted an eyelid when Alexandros refused to leave his side. He would have to report back to their optio eventually, but the healer assured them that Yehonathan would be well enough to return to their tent, so he decided to wait until Yeho was released.

By the time the healer was satisfied, Yehonathan was looking much better, and not just because Alexandros had cleaned him up. He wasn't so pale anymore under his desert tan, his unusual two-coloured eyes sparkling again, poking Alexandros playfully when he was too careful in wiping off the dirt and grime of battle. 

"Not going to break, Alékos," he teased and wrestled the cloth off his friend. Alexandros responded in kind, causing the healer to raise an unimpressed eyebrow when he returned to the sight of the two of them almost tearing apart the wet cloth. But the man had seen worse in his time, so he simply sent them away with the admonishment to be careful. 

Yeho was not allowed to put his full weight onto his leg for at least a few days, which meant no marching. These news didn't impress the optio; however, underneath his gruff exterior the older soldier liked the irreppressible Jew, and there was to bite to his bark. 

Alexandros was no longer surprised by this, since he himself was quite helpless against the force of Yeho's smile. He did his best to hide it, at least when others were around, but the optio at least wasn't fooled. Shaking his head fondly, he gave Alexandros permission to join Yehonathan on the wagon with the other wounded when the legion decamped the next morning, saying he’d square it with the centurion.

They joined the rest of their contubernium at their tent, relieved to notice that the other six legionnaires were uninjured. They were exchanging the usual post-battle stories of feats of strength against the enemy, and Yeho and Alexandros soon joined in, sitting side by side around the camp fire. 

Their rations always tasted best in the aftermath of victory, even if it was just bread and lentils with _garum_ , washed down with wine. As always, Yeho quickly passed up the fragrant fish sauce, protesting that it was against his religion when their fellow soldiers teased him about his poor taste. 

It was an old joke, and Alékos rested his elbows on his knees in order to watch Yehonathan throw his head back in laughter, a sight he would never tire of. Catching him at it, Yeho laugh gentled to a warm smile that Alexandros couldn't help but mirror. Their eyes locked and held, and without needing to talk about it, they made their excuses to their comrades. 

Yeho claimed exhaustion, which was believable enough, and no one was surprised when Alexandros offered him his arm to lean on. They'd all been through too much together to judge each other for finding peace and pleasure wherever they could. Of course, the fact that neither Alexandros nor Yehonathan were Romans also helped, giving them some leeway from the moral code most of their fellow legionnaires had been raised with.

Inside their tent, the rest of the world fell away. Alékos lowered Yeho to his bedroll and gently helped him out of his armour, leaving him in just his tunic. For once Yehonathan was happy to be coddled, obviously more tired than he'd let on before, watching Alexandros wordlessly while he undressed as well. 

Their beds were next to each other, but after putting away his clothes and readying their packs for a quick start in the morning, Alexandros returned to Yeho's side, wordlessly sliding in next to him and taking him in his arms. He could feel Yeho's smile against his neck as his friend buried himself in his embrace with a happy sigh. He pressed a kiss to Yeho's matted hair, not minding that it hadn't seen a bath in several days. Tension bled from him that he'd been carrying ever since the battle and that horrible moment when he'd seen Yehonathan fall. Willing the mental image away, his lips found Yeho's and their bodies came together lazily. 

Their was no urgency in their coupling, both of them too drained from the day, but that wasn't what this was about anyway. Instead, every kiss was a reassurance, _We're alive_ , every touch a wordless promise, _We're together_ , as they moved in perfect tandem in the flickering light of their oil lamp.

 _This_ was what made it all worth it. Alexandros might have joined up to bring honour to his family back in Greece, but it was with Yeho, this unlikely friend, that he'd built his home.

***

Waking, the smile on Alec's face melted away as he found himself alone in the darkness of his room at the Institute. Across town, in the unfamiliar surroundings of the City of Bones, Jace woke with a start, a name that was almost, but not _quite_ Alec’s still on his lips. 

Hands pressed against their parabatai runes, they sought to reassure themselves that nothing unusual was bleeding through their bond. Satisfied, they both dismissed the dream - but it took a while for their heartbeats to slow down and longer still before sleep found them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the starting point - I can't wait to see where this story will go as other writers continue it, both in the past and present!
> 
>  
> 
> **You can sign up[here](https://de.surveymonkey.com/r/KGP3C6Y) at any time (details on [Tumblr](https://shirasade.tumblr.com/post/182036047806/jalec-round-robin-1-lock-and-key) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/434347) | [Dreamwidth](https://shirasade.dreamwidth.org/1891400.html))!**


	2. The shores of Spain, 1597

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right in the middle of a war already lasting over a decade, a more personal conflict unravels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Mia here.  
> This particular reincarnation dream uses the Anglo-Spanish War (1585–1604) as a backdrop to the events unfolding between the characters. Alicante is, in fact, an actual place in Spain, which is why it's mentioned. I wanted to focus more on the sensation of the first meeting rather than the parallels to canon, but they're really rather easy to spot if you're familiar with the canon plot. Any mistakes or historical inaccuracies are entirely my own.

The first time the Silent Brothers tried probing into his mind (they were helping, he knew that perfectly well, but he couldn’t _not_ think of it as an intrusion after everything that had happened), it was far gentler than Jace had expected. He hadn’t even been asked to leave the space they’d given him, as Brother Zachariah had clearly wanted to make him feel comfortable first. It wasn’t difficult to see why – Jace could still remember the day when he’d brought Clary here; how scared she had been. It was the kind of fear that came with inexperience, of course, but he was afraid too, the thought of something lurking in the back of his mind more terrifying than any weapon had appeared to be in the recent past.

So, talking it was. Jace had done quite a lot of it already, answering questions that had started off simple enough (he was here because of the dreams, he’d said since the very start; because they had twisted and turned into something new even now that he was supposed to be _free_ ) by the time he realised that the conversation had taken a different direction from the expected one.

 _Perhaps it’s time you tried indulging them_ , Brother Zachariah had said when he’d finally confessed just how much the thought of feeling anything like Lilith’s influence ever again petrified him, _now that you know that the source isn’t the same as before_.

“It still wouldn’t explain what the source _is_.” He hadn’t meant to show just how frustrated he was, but what difference would it make? The Silent Brothers could always tell either way. “Unless it’s me, that is.”

After everything his body and mind had been through, it wouldn’t have been much of a surprise and apparently, he was not alone in this line of thinking. _It could be a possibility_.

It was cold and dark and lonely in the depths of the City of Bones and perhaps, in the end, that was why it felt so easy for Jace to let his subconscious take over once again.

***

Alexander wasn’t entirely sure how this could have gone so horribly wrong.

Really, his mission had been simple enough. Finding Valentine Morgenstern hadn’t been any trouble either – the man was as loud as he was wicked and he’d broadcasted his position through every obstacle he’d sent his own countrymen’s way as they’d neared Spain. They were plentiful, but not particularly loyal and Alexander had managed to torture the information about his whereabouts out of them quite easily. The closer they had got to their final destination, the more this had had all the makings of an easy mission; as easy as the ones he got assigned with ever were. The trip from England had been blessedly easy too. So far, everything had gone exactly as predicted.

So really, none of this made any sense.

"How can it not be him?" He asked for what had to be the second but felt like the thousandth time. "J. C. Morgenstern. That's the name we were given and we know he was with his father. We even had a description and now you're telling me that, what? There's two of them?"

"Not quite, Sir." Unlike Morgenstern, Alexander and his family valued the people who worked for them enough to, for the most part, earn their genuine aspect, so he knew that it wasn't fear he could see in Underhill's eyes now, but it wasn't too far from it either. Apprehension, perhaps; the one that usually came with a job gone disastrously wrong.

Not that it'd been his fault, really. Alexander knew that he should have checked the prisoner for himself before they'd come back on board - he had known Jonathan as a child and doubted that the fifteen years that had passed since then would have rendered him unrecognisable - but he'd had Valentine to deal with and restrain. It hadn't left him with much time to handle his son, too, and they'd been friends once. It had been much more tempting to leave the easier part to someone who didn't have the personal history of such an encounter weighing them down.

“Morgenstern's son never left England, it seems, but he took the other one instead; that's what our eyewitnesses saw. It's a trick, no doubt, but—”

"The other one?" Not another son, clearly - Alexander had heard the story of the Morgenstern family and the tragedy of everyone in his surroundings quite a few times by now - but still another accomplice. One that they hadn't been made aware of, too, which made it all the more worrying. "Someone he used as bait?"

“I'd say so.” Underhill shifted in place; a clear tell of a man bearing more bad news. “In more ways than one, I'm afraid.”

“Meaning?”

“The bait was not meant for us. I realise that this doesn't clear up much, but our prisoner is—” The man faltered. “He's not entirely coherent yet. Perhaps you'd have an easier time with him.”

Highly likely, Alexander thought. If he wanted answers from any of Valentine's men, a hands-on approach had usually been required. "Take me to him."

“Of course, Sir.” Underhill led him down the cramped corridor that separated the Captain's cabin from the couple of cells in the darker parts of the ship, but took a sharp turn left once they'd almost reached them. “I took the liberty of taking him away from his— from Morgenstern. He wouldn't talk at all while he was with him and he doesn't really consider himself a prisoner either way, so it might be easier that way.” Before Alexander had had the chance to ask, he was gestured towards one of the empty room, already unlocked for him. He nodded his thanks before slipping in and closing the door as quietly as possible behind his back.

It wasn’t enough. Jonathan, who had been dozing off on the edge of the bed, startled awake. “Who’s there?”

Alexander didn't move. There was a candlestick that he needed to get to if he actually wanted to have a face-to-face conversation, but leaving his potential opponent quite literally in the dark for the time being was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. People, he had learned, had a much easier time opening up about their true intentions when they were terrified.

The man's voice dropped even lower and this time, it had a much more prominent edge of fear to it. “Father,” he ventured, “is it you?”

Well, that would explain a few things. He doesn't see himself as a prisoner. If not that, then what? A refugee? It was still early to say, so Alexander kept quiet, only to be startled into plastering himself against the door when the man in front of him got up to his feet. It wasn't easy with the ropes looped around his ankles and wrists making his body rather uncooperative, but he managed to get close enough to be able to make out the shape of his opponent somehow; the silhouette of him only outlines by the sparse rays of moonlight sneaking through the small cabin's windows. It was just enough illumination for him to be able to tell the difference, it appeared, and some of the tension in his frame seeped out of him.

“The man who brought me here— he said he'd let me explain.” The crack in his voice made the complaint seem a lot more helpless than it would have been otherwise; a lot more desperate, too, given the way he tried to grip Alexander's wrist, as if it would do anything to hurry things along. “I would like to speak to the Captain.”

“You are. Speaking to the Captain, that is.” He swiftly moved away from the attempted touch and aimed for the candle instead, bathing the room in the soft glow of its flame just in time to see Jonathan Morgenstern - the supposed Jonathan Morgenstern, at the very least - swirl around to take another look at him.

His first conclusion was that the man had lied and that Underhill had been a fool to release him from his cage. He'd seen him before, he was sure of it, and it hadn't been that long ago, either; even through the layers of dirt and grime, his sharp, gaunt features were unmistakable. As was everything about him, really - the hair throwing shadows over his face, the touch of darkness in one of his eyes, the perpetually displeased curl of his mouth. He knew what each and every one of those things felt and looked like up close and he knew it intimately, except—

Except. It was an age-old recognition, something dark and deep and pulled right out of his very core, far more ancient than any childhood memory would have ever been.

 

_Jace, Alec whispered, and somewhere, miles and centuries and oceans away from him, he saw Jonathan Herondale’s expression light up with surprise. Neither of them had spoken, not here nor there or anywhere in the middle, but it was obvious – of course it was him. Wasn’t it always?_

 

Alexander Lightwood was a quiet, (perhaps rightfully) distrusting man, and Jonathan had no reason to recognise as much of his mannerisms as he did.

He'd sat near the window, now, and was eyeing him with a strange mix of curiosity and suspicion and Jonathan wanted nothing more to tell him everything as it was for the beginning. There was, of course, the issue of him knowing what he did only from his father's records, but, “I'm not Jonathan Morgenstern.”

It wasn't the best start, but it was what the majority of his life had always boiled down to, so perhaps it was the best place to start.

“But I can understand the confusion,” he soldiered on. "You had a man with the description of Valentine's son leaving the country alongside his father; it was the only logical conclusion. It's exactly what he wanted; to get someone's attention."

“Not ours, as I understand it.”

 _Not very talkative, either_. There was a hint of fondness tinting the observation, or something dangerously close to it. It was the exhaustion, Jonathan supposed; that alongside with the terror of his father's presence in the last few weeks and the lack of food and water that had piled up on top of everything else in the past day or so. “No.”

“You still call him Father.”

“He is as close as I've ever had to one. He made sure of that a long time ago.” Jonathan stepped closer to the Captain, but didn't near him enough for it to be mistaken for a threat, choosing instead to find his way back to his seat at the corner of the bed. “My father died before I was born. My mother—” It was a difficult thing to voice in front of what was, by all means, a complete stranger, but still far easier than it had been to see it written in his father's diaries. “She was presumed to have died in childbirth along with her child.” _Along with me_. Ever since he'd finally managed to reach Valentine's old home in Alicante and all the notes he'd kept there, stopping his imagination from running wild with what he'd read had been impossible. Telling the story in its most condensed version was a simpler feat, especially when compared to the realisation that the Captain as well as everyone in his surroundings would demand more details in the future. "My grandmother was the only one who doubted any of it. She knew her relatives - her son - better than Valentine had assumed and the story didn't quite make sense, but she had no way to prove that Valentine Morgenstern was still alive, potentially hiding away the last living member of her family.”

“Your grandmother?” Alexander's mind was racing a mile per minute; it was clear even in the dim lighting of the candle. He would get there eventually, Jonathan supposed - there were only so many families with a heritage important enough for one of them to be kidnapped and even fewer that could inspire this sort of thirst for revenge - but it wouldn't hurt to help him get there sooner. It was rather thrilling, too; to finally speak the name he'd seen so often by now out loud.

“Imogen Herondale.”

“That's not possible.” Even if Alexander had been willing to listen to him before, he'd definitely lost him now, Jonathan thought. "Celine Herondale didn't die in childbirth; she died _pregnant_. Everyone involved with Valentine Morgenstern at the time - whether they were trying to stop him or join him didn't matter - knows what happened.”

“I have no doubt that this is the story your parents once told you, _Captain_ _Lightwood_ ,” Jonathan spat out (despite his father's best efforts, he had never been quite as good a soldier fuelled by his unquestioning loyalty as he was at getting aggravated at anyone who underestimated him), “but it's not the truth. I can't tell you everything - I don't know most of it - but I have Valentine's diaries and you have the man himself. It was your mission, was it not? Returning him and his son from Spain so that they could be held responsible for their crimes all the way back in their homeland. I can provide you with that and, if you just listen, I can give you even more.”

And there it was again - recognition. There had been no palpable change to speak of in Alexander's demeanour, but Jonathan had still seen something - a shift in his expression, a touch of trust in his eyes - that had made him feel just a little bit lighter; just a little bit closer to home. He wasn't alone in it, either. He had seen the mirror of that precise feeling on his Captain's face minutes prior when they had had their first look at one another.

“Your men confiscated all my belongings,” he continued, emboldened by the silence. “You can see for yourself if you want, or you could question him instead.”

“Or,” Alexander spoke again, shifting to pull something out of the inner pocket of his coat - a small knife, it seemed by the faint light reaching it through the mudded glass. “You could tell me the story yourself.”

Without an ounce of hesitation - or fear, come to think of it, inexplicable as it was - Jonathan held his arms out and watched as the rope fell to his feet.

***

 _Do you ever think,_ Jace's message said the next morning as it materialised on the edge of Alec's desk, _that you trust me a little too much for your own good?_

Alec's fingers froze in the middle of yet another trail of explanations, accusations and excuses, all directed at the Council all the way in Alicante.

In a kinder world, this could have been nothing but teasing. They’d shared dreams before, albeit rarely, and when they’d been younger, it had been entertaining; comparing notes. Now, after what had happened last night and the night before that, too – after the strange tension that their bond had been put under by whatever was being done to Jace in the City of Bones – it barely managed to bring a faint, if still anxious, smile out of him. Give it to his parabatai to make him expect the unexpected once again.

He had been expecting a firemessage somewhere around now, but they were rather limited in nature; nothing advanced enough for him to be able to ask Jace if he had had the same vision as he himself had had to endure again. Did the Silent Brothers know? They must, he supposed; they always knew. If there had been something wrong with their (shared, Alec would bet, even if it would be far easier to just be able to _ask_ ) dreams, they would have already detected it and brought it up. If anything of the sort had happened, Jace would have told him about that instead of asking questions.

Still, the answer had been clear since day one – not the day they’d met, even, because it had felt like a _given_ back then. A different day one; perhaps back when the first parabatai bond had been forged or the first living matter had exploded into existence at the beginning of everything. It was still a given today, ten years and a millennia and a few billion years later.

 _Never_ , Alec scribbled back and watched as the parchment slowly turned to ember in his grip.


	3. Jed & Alastair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He owns so little and, thanks to his father, he’s about to lose most of it. Worst of all, he’s about to lose the one who matters the most.

Alec held the secret belief that all books were magical. Not in the sense that all of them were _about_ magic. Not even in the sense that all of them were capable of transporting the reader to other worlds and other times—accounting books, for example, were hardly inspirational. No, they were all magical in the sense that you would put them somewhere, and they would magically disappear when you weren’t looking and materialize in a different room altogether, sometimes vanishing entirely for years, only to reappear in the most unexpected of places when you had entirely forgotten about them.

 _The Complete Works of the Seelie Idulalin_. It was a misnomer for sure. A more adequate title would have been _A Small Fraction of All the Poems Written by the Seelie Idulalin, Which Was All She Was Willing to Share with the Rest of the Shadow World, While Most of Her Work Remains Known Only to Her Own People_. It was an old Nephilim edition, though, and Nephilim overall were not the best to admit that there were things about the Shadow World that eluded them. Which was painfully ridiculous, considering how little they truly understood the Downworlders.

Since Alec took over the New York Institute and formed the Downworld Cabinet, it dawned on him that he had to learn much more in order to bridge the cultural gap between him and the other members of the Cabinet. Especially the Seelies, who literally lived in their own world apart from everyone else’s. Perhaps it was silly to imagine that reading Seelie poetry would help with interspecies politics, but it was a glimpse on the way they saw things, on what they longed for and what they feared, on what truly inspired their awe and stirred their emotions. Given how cunning and guarded Seelies were during practical negotiations, maybe understanding their art was the way to go.

Also, from what Alec remembered, the thick book contained a handful of poems about dreams and shared minds that… well… it was probably irrelevant. He wasn’t even sure if that was what had really happened the last two nights. Still, he wanted to reread those poems most of all.

There had been something both new and infinitely familiar in those _tugs_ he felt through the parabatai bond as he woke up. Jace was in the City of Bones looking for answers. Maybe Alec should do his part up here, too. After all, even if this dream thing was just his imagination, ultimately whatever affected one of them was bound to affect the other. If Jace was fighting for his peace of mind, Alec would fight alongside him, regardless of their physical distance.

Where was that damned book, though? It was not in the Institute’s library, at least not where it was supposed to be, and if it had been misplaced, it might take months for it to turn up again. Alec had his own copy, but hadn’t seen it in a long while. After a thorough search, he was reasonably sure it was not in his bedroom. There was little chance that it was in his office, given that it hadn’t been _his_ office for that long, but he still checked every shelf and every drawer, without luck.

Could Jace have borrowed it?

Maybe he had tried to find some quotes with which to impress his… ‘book club’?

Alec rolled his eyes. At Jace, because he would totally do that, and at himself, for still letting it bother him after all these years.

As he stepped into Jace’s bedroom, he glanced around at its ample space, the tall windows, the huge Persian rugs, the hefty walnut desk in the corner, and the ornate fireplace beside the large, luxurious bed, and he couldn’t help but wonder how his parabatai was dealing with his current accommodations. Even if this time he was a guest and not a prisoner, how much in the line of comfort did the Silent Brothers have to offer? Alec hoped Jace was warm and eating well, treated properly not only mentally but also physically. He supposed he would sense if Jace were in distress, but small annoyances might pass unnoticed.

Alec had little trouble finding the book, on the bedside table, next to the alarm clock. It was bookmarked, and he opened it on the indicated page, curious to see which poem Jace had read last.

However, his attention immediately turned from the tome to the bookmark itself. It was a printed photo of Alec and Jace from when they were kids, probably not long after Jace had come to live in the Institute. Jace was smirking at the camera, one elbow propped on Alec’s shoulder, clearly pleased with himself for being tall enough to do that, even though Alec was a couple of years older than him.

Alec smiled. Yeah, that didn’t last long. By the time they made their oath, they were about the same height, and nowadays… Alec’s smile transformed into a smirk that most likely mimicked Jace’s on the picture. If he wanted, he could easily prop his elbow on Jace’s shoulder now, maybe even on his head. Oh, that would peeve him for sure!

They looked so young in that photo. Not innocent, but… untested. They both carried their share of inner demons, even then. And if Alec's had been, relatively speaking, tamer than Jace's, at the time they had been scary enough that he had feared he would never master the fortitude to face them, let alone defeat them.  

‘Same side.’ Those were the first words Jace had ever said to him. Oddly prophetic, considering how entangled their lives—their souls—would soon become.

Or maybe they were less a prophecy of things to come than a simple statement of the truth. In all honesty, his first impression of Jace was that of a cocky, tactless, arrogant little brat, qualities that Alec usually didn’t find remotely endearing. But there was something about the blond boy that made him instantly realize that there was more there than boldness and over-confidence, something frail and familiar, hidden under layers of protective armor. Perhaps Jace had seen something similar in him in that very moment, too. Perhaps he had understood, at one glance, that they were indeed on the same side, and always would be.

* * *

“Sweetheart, are you done back there?”

Jed took the last item left in the battered dresser—his Sunday trousers—and dumped it carelessly on the top of the pile on the bed. All his clothes were there on that pile now, on the bed where he had slept all his life, and where he slept for the last time the night before. Slept poorly, knowing that he would never lie on the familiar cot again. It was small and lumpy in uncomfortable places, but it had been his. And now he had to say goodbye.

“Sweetheart?”

“Almost done, Mum!” he called back.

He grabbed the corners of the bed sheet under the pile, pulled them up and tied them together, wrapping his belongings in a large bundle. With a grunt, he hoisted it up and set it on his shoulder, and took a last look around. Nothing left behind except for his books.

His dear books.

Now also a thing of the past.

Jed closed his eyes tight, hardening his jaw. He would not cry. He was twelve, far too old to be bursting into tears like a baby.

Life wasn’t fair. He had known that for a long time. Poor children didn’t have the privilege to assume that life would ever be fair for them.

That was something Alistair would probably never understand.

Alistair…

Alistair wasn’t here in this room right now, but a thousand memories of him were—and that was something else Jed was saying goodbye to. For good. It would be futile to pretend otherwise.

“All for some bloody, stupid birds,” he muttered bitterly.

Adjusting the heavy bundle more firmly on his shoulder, he turned to the door and left the room towards the kitchen.

He found his mother fussing over a box, arranging its contents with a level of care and tidiness that Jed could not find in his heart at the moment. Unlike Jed, who had never traveled anywhere and thus had never needed a proper luggage container, she did own a couple of boxes—well, one of them technically belonged to Jed’s father, but it wasn’t like he had any use for it now. She also had a carpet bag on which she had embroidered her initials, CC—for Candace Clifford—near the clasp.

It was fortunate that she didn’t have to rely on sheet bundles, as she certainly had more to pack than he did. Dresses, petticoats and skirts, even though she didn’t own many, took more space than a boy’s clothes did. And she was probably taking with her more mementos and knickknacks than he owned, being fifteen years older and more sentimental than he could afford to be.

He was the man of the family now. No one would condemn his mother for grieving, as long as she didn’t make a spectacle of it and did her job properly without inviting rebuke. The rules were different for Jed. Now he had to do twice as much to prove himself, to make up for his father’s misdeed.

Jed glanced around at the kitchen, which looked mostly unchanged. His mother was only taking with her a blue opaline glass vase, chipped at the rim—a gift from her late aunt— and a china fruit bowl his father had broken, hurling it on the floor in a fit of temper, and that Candace had patiently glued together. All the pots, pans and plates would be left behind, to serve the cabin’s future residents, whoever they might be.

And it was much the same in the rest of the cottage, still cozily furnished and decorated even after Jed and his mother had taken all their stuff. It all belonged to the Halsey estate, to the family in the manor, and would soon be placed in the custody of the next gamekeeper.

Jed sighed. It was strange to realize how little in there actually belonged to them.

“Did you get everything, Jed?”

Jed gazed around once more, this time more attentively. Still, he made a point not to look at the table beside the door, where most of his father’s tools lay. He supposed the new gamekeeper would discard at least some of them, bringing in his own. It made no difference to Jed. They could all be dumped in the bin for all he cared.

”All that matters, yes,” he replied.

“I suppose if we forget something, Lady Halsey will let us come back for it. But I’d rather not have to ask. We’re indebted enough to her generosity as it is.”

“Her _generosity_?” Jed spat. “They’re throwing us out of our home!”

“That is not true, and you know it. The Halseys would be in their right to throw us out of their property altogether, without character or any means to support ourselves, to live God knows where. Be grateful that they’re not judging us for what your father did.”

“Why should they judge us? We didn’t eat any of the game he poached. You refused to cook a single partridge he brought home without permission,” Jed reminded her, trying to ignore his mixed feelings about that. He almost wished his mother had not been so righteous, that he had gotten to savor the meat of at least one of the stolen pheasants Farley Clifford had been caught with, if they were all going to be pay for them anyway.

“He made money selling them, and that money probably paid for the new boots he gave you. We are hardly innocent.”

Jed gazed down at his boots, new only in the sense that he had had them for only a couple of months. They were in decent condition, the old leather a little scuffed on the heels, but they had obviously been remade from someone’s castoffs. Jed was sure that his father had invested much of his illicit profits in businesses and ventures unrelated to his family. In consideration of his mother’s feelings, the boy had no desire to find out where the money had gone. The answer could not be good.

He set the bundle down and gazed sadly at what their lives in that cottage had amounted to: two medium-size boxes, one large carpet bag, and one makeshift bundle. That was it. Everything they were worth inside four shabby containers.

“I hope this isn’t too much,” his mother murmured.

Jed frowned. “What?”

“We won’t have much space up in the manor. The servants’ rooms are much smaller than this place.”

That was true. In his lifetime, Jed had seen a few servants come and go: the scullery maid who got married and left, the valet who decided to emigrate to America, and the house boy who was called back to his hometown when his mother got sick—all of whom had to be replaced—and the nanny that was dismissed after the youngest of Alastair’s siblings was deemed too old for her services. From what Jed could remember, most of them had carried only one box or bag with them in their way in or out.

With all basic needs provided by their employers and very short time allowed for leisure, one might say the average servant didn’t _need_ to own much anyway.

Of course, one might also question if anyone really _needed_ a manor like the Halsey’s, with more bedrooms than Jed had fingers, each one crammed with pictures, rugs, vases, pillows, and an abundant assortment of precious ornaments, many of them ridiculously old and worth more that this entire cottage. Lord Halsey proudly showed off his snuff box collection to his friends, he who never sniffed tobacco at all. And every year, when the family left for London season, a separate coach was necessary to carry their luggage to the train station—and that was just for their clothes and toiletries, since the Halseys’ town house was just as opulently furnished.

Or so Jed assumed. He had never been there, of course. And Alastair was not one to brag about material things. Alastair cared only about being as fast, deft, and smart as Jed, and about not giving anyone the chance to patronize him.

It hurt so much to think of Alastair now. He had been away, visiting cousins, when Jed’s father was arrested. Judging from his letters, no one had bothered to tell him about the ‘sad trouble’ with the gamekeeper. Jed had actually started a letter of his own, telling Alastair about everything that had happened... but he scrapped it after half a paragraph and ended up not sending any replies. The silence had enervated Alastair, his growing concern evident both in his tone and in his handwriting. But Jed was sure that soon enough Alastair would be informed of the facts and of the unsuitability of having any connection with the son of a convicted felon.

Jed could not imagine what his friend’s reaction would be. He dared hope that Alastair would rebel against his parents’ instructions just a little, at least for a moment, and maybe feel a fraction of Jed’s chagrin at this new reality. He dared hope that everything the two of them had experienced together had really meant _something_ , and would not be forgotten at the drop of a hat. The end of their friendship—and of everything they had been to each other—might hurt a tiny less if Jed could be sure that Alastair would at least cherish the memory of their days together. And maybe miss him. Just a little bit.

Jed pressed his palm against his chest, right over his heart, feeling the bulk in the inner pocket of his jacket. Every single one of Alastair’s letters was there, plus some random notes they had exchanged in class over the years. He didn’t want to put them in the bundle with the rest of his things. There probably wasn’t any reason to be so territorial about them—his mother couldn’t read, after all. Still, he couldn’t bear the thought of being parted with them.

“I wonder if we can manage in one trip,” Candace murmured, considering their combined luggage. “I’m afraid the boxes are heavy. I tried to divide the weight evenly, but...”

She was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“It seems like they’ve sent someone to make sure we won’t steal anything,” Jed grunted.

“Jed!” She gave him a reproving glare before opening the door.

Outside, there was a boy in neat, tidy clothes, his blond hair meticulously combed back and plastered down with macassar oil. The blush in his fair cheeks and his quick breathing, however, betrayed the fact that he had most certainly come running, with no regard to what people might think of the Halsey heir dashing through the fields in a way most unsuitable for someone of his status.

Jed felt the air catch in his throat.

Why? Why was Alastair here? Couldn’t he just have vanished silently from Jed’s life, keeping his distance, turning the other way if he happened to glimpse Jed in his surroundings, not talking to him unless to give him instructions? Yes, he had wished for Alastair to resent their new circumstances, but there was nothing to be done about them, and seeing him here, showing up in his door like this, looking as bright and handsome as ever… It just made everything worse.

Losing the cottage and his name’s reputation didn’t hurt nearly as much as losing _him_.

”Good morning, Mrs. Clifford,” said Alastair. “May I come in?”

Jed felt a flash of irritation at the question. Were they going to pretend that she could say no?

Alastair was being polite, though, and he didn’t _have_ to be. Jed breathed in deeply, trying to reign in his temper.

Candace stepped back so Alastair could come inside. The two boys’ gazes met a moment later, and Jed felt his heart skip a beat.

“Master Alastair, what can I do for you?” asked Candace. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea. I’m afraid I’ve already put out the fire in the stove.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Clifford. I’ve come to help. What can I do?”

Candace’s eyes widened in astonishment. “H-help?”

“With the move.”

Jed could tell his mother was uncomfortable. Frankly, she would have been even if the offer had been made before her husband had been arrested for betraying Alastair’s father trust. Gentry did not usually thank servants for doing their job, let alone offer them help. But Alastair had always been somewhat unusual.

The Halsey heir had been a constant presence in the cottage since he had been old enough to come on his own—quite often sneaking out of the manor without permission, at all hours of the day. He was only a few months younger than Jed, who really didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known Alastair, or when the two boys had not been the most inseparable friends. He could not explain how that relationship had started, because as far as he was concerned, Alastair had _always_ been there.

It had sometimes felt like they had been living a double life, though. Candace would urge him repeatedly to show Alastair the utmost respect, be mindful of their social differences, and never take any liberties. And mostly they had played by those rules when there was anyone watching them. But whenever they had found themselves alone, the norms and conventions went out the window. They had talked as equals, shared intimate secrets, and been brutally honest with both praise and criticism of each other. And they had run together all over the estate, fished in the pond, played with the dogs, and laid on the grass side by side, telling each other made-up stories illustrated by the changing shapes of the clouds.

When Lady Halsey invited Jed to sit in the schoolroom with Alastair to be taught by Mr. Bennett, the tutor, Candace had been beside herself with happiness. An education would open so many doors to her son when he became of age. He wouldn’t have to be in service. He would be allowed to aim much higher. Maybe even become a teacher himself someday.

While Jed had been aware of the privilege he was bestowed, he didn’t think much of the future. He was just glad for the extra hours he got to spend next to Alastair, both studying and playing pranks on Mr. Bennett.

Maybe it was a good thing Jed had not entertained many dreams about professional careers. It would have only been something else to say goodbye now, thanks to one Farley Clifford, accused at the assizes of poaching the game whose care he had been in charge of, and condemned to seven years of hard labor. Jed had heard enough stories about jail to expect that he would ever get to see his father alive again.

Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Candace was humiliated. She did not sugarcoat the situation to Jed: his father’s dishonor was theirs as well. They could not run from it, it was a stain that would taint their name forever. Jed had to accept it, and become the best man he could be in spite of it.

They had considered vague plans to move to Leeds and try their luck at the textile factories, when Lady Halsey had surprised them by asking them to remain on the estate, hiring Jed as a boot boy and his mother as a housemaid. As much as it pained Jed to admit, it _was_ a generous offer, which might even earn the Halseys some ill feelings from their friends, if they came to find out.

And it wouldn’t just be the gentry that would have an opinion about it. The other servants would most certainly look down on the Cliffords, wary of their connection to a thief. It was doubtful that anyone would ever trust them up in the manor.

And yet, here was Alastair. Offering this disgraced family help to move to under his parents’ roof.

He was not supposed to be here. And most definitely, he was not supposed to be here _now_ , being all solicitous and nice.

“What else is there to pack?” asked Alastair, glancing around.

“Oh, I reckon we’re all set here,” said Candace quickly. Then she seemed to realize that her refusal might offend him, and added in a quieter tone, “Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Then let me help you carry your things up to the house.”

“Oh, Master Alastair.” Candace flustered. “That _really_ is not necessary.”

It was also inappropriate, but she wouldn’t dare tell him that. A servant did not tell their masters what they could or could not do.

And the fact was that Alastair had never cared about such things, and had often helped Candace carry coal or firewood or even the laundry basket, simply because it mattered more to him to be considerate than being a gentleman.

“Please, I insist,” said Alastair. He looked down at the luggage, his face clear of any judgment about the leanness of their belongings. “If you take the bag, Mrs. Clifford, I’m sure Jed and I can manage the rest.”

Candace hesitated. “Please, Master Alastair. If Lady Halsey sees you...”

“Oh, Mother knows I’m here. Don’t worry about that.”

“She does?” Candace’s surprise was not unjustified. Alastair was not exactly strict when it came to asking his parents’ permission before acting.

“I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble because of me, Mrs. Clifford,” said Alastair with that gentle smile that always made Jed’s knees a little weak.

It was as if Alastair was determined to make this goodbye as torturous as possible for Jed, reminding him of every little thing he was losing.

Maybe that was the whole point of his presence here. Revenge for every bird Farley Clifford had stolen, by stealing Jed’s heart and crushing it to smithereens.

Unaware of her son’s misery, Candace stared at Alastair with trepidation, still unsure what to do.  

Jed couldn’t stand the tension anymore. He picked up the carpet bag and handed it to her. “Go, Mum. We’ll deal with the rest.”

“The boxes are heavy,” she said, and lifted up Jed’s bundle as well, adjusting it against her hip. “Thank you, Master Alastair. I... I don’t know yet where our new quarters are, so...”

“That’s fine,” Alastair reassured her. “I’ll ask Tyndale.”

Jed could already see the bemused look in the butler’s face. The man often seemed to care way more about social class and propriety than the Halseys did. And he didn’t hide his disapproval of Jed’s outrageous arrogance in acting like he was friends with the heir of the estate. After his father’s arrest, Jed had even overheard Tyndale talking to the housekeeper, lamenting that the transportation of convicts to Australia had ceased two decades earlier. ‘Britain has no place for crooks,’ he had said haughtily.

Jed had almost succumbed to the urge to kick the man in the shins as hard as he could. It wasn’t even personal. Tyndale’s pompous airs inspired that urge in him all the time.

“By the way, Mother met with the whole staff this morning,” Alastair continued. “She told them unequivocally that you and Jed must be welcomed warmly in the manor and offered any aid you might need.”

Candace’s face lit up in gratitude and tenderness. She opened her mouth, but words seemed to have deserted her. So she just nodded, almost curtsied, and left. Jed gazed at her as she climbed the road to the manor, carefully balancing the two loads, not once looking back.

For the first time in his entire life, Jed felt uneasy being alone with Alastair. He knew he had to apologize. It didn’t matter that it had been his father who had committed the crime, Jed was guilty by association, as his mother had already pointed out. He took a deep breath, and braced himself for whatever response he might get.

“I’m sorry.”

Jed blinked in confusion. The mumbled words had come from the boy in front of him, who stared at Jed with eyes full of contrition. “What do _you_ have to be sorry for?”

“I should have been here for you.”

Jed was _floored_ , less by the words than by the stark sincerity in them. “Don’t be daft! You didn’t know what was going on!”

He remembered too late that insulting Alastair was absolutely forbidden now. Their entire dynamics would have to change.

Alastair didn’t react at all at the abuse. “It doesn’t matter. That whole trip was stupid. My cousins are insufferable. All I wanted was to be back here with you.”

Jed clenched his fists. “Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true, I promise!” vowed Alastair, as if scared that Jed would doubt him. “I’m furious at my parents for not telling me what happened. I swear to you, I would have come back on the first train.”

“To do what?” Jed growled. “To cheer on the police when they dragged my father away?”

Alastair’s remorseful expression turned into an impatient glare. “Now don’t _you_ be daft. You know me better than that, Jedediah Clifford.”

Jed looked away, unable to hold Alastair’s gaze. Now he owed his friend another apology. He would be apologizing forever. And it would never be enough.

Alastair stepped closer. “You must be so angry,” he murmured. “This is all so unfair.”

“Farley _is_ guilty.” Jed couldn’t stomach calling him ‘papa’ anymore.

“He was a dishonest employee, but worse than that, he was a wretched father to you,” said Alastair with his usual bluntness. “And don’t you dare deny that last part. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

Jed didn’t bother to argue. It would be pointless, after all the stories he had confided in Alastair about Farley Clifford’s poor temperament.

“Mrs. Clifford is a good, exemplary woman. It really took me less than ten minutes to convince Father that she… and you, obviously… should be allowed to stay on the estate.”

Jed gasped. “It was you who…?”

Alastair shrugged. “It was much too easy. Chances are he had already made up his mind about that, and he just wanted to hear the strength of my arguments. I tell you, sometimes it feels like he is constantly testing me, prodding me to see if I measure up to his expectations.”

The urge to apologize returned, this time genuinely. How could Jed have ever believed that Alastair would not have fought for him? For them?

Even if there was no way to salvage what the two of them had had, it was thanks to Alastair that Jed and his mother still had a place, would have food and work, and maybe even respect among the rest of the staff. It would be a hard adjustment, but much better than the alternative.

“By the way, I apologize in advance for my older sisters,” Alastair went on, his lips twitching in bemusement. “I fear they will prove to be less than pleasant. If they bother you or your mother, send them my way. I’ll deal with them.”

Jed snorted. “They never liked me anyway.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what they think gives them the right to be so judgmental. Most likely, they’re just jealous of us.”

Us.

Jed closed his eyes, struggling to hold back the tears. Hearing Alastair say that word now was both heaven and hell. Heaven that Alastair acknowledged that there had been an ‘us’. Hell that they would never be an ‘us’ again.

“Are you all right?” Alastair asked softly.

“I...” Jed was about to say that everything was fine, but when he opened his eyes, he found Alastair staring at him too closely for any lie to pass unnoticed. “I don’t know. I don’t think my mind has fully grasped yet what’s happened... what’s _going_ to happen. Everything will be different now.”

Alastair reached out and took Jed’s hand in his. “Not everything.”

Jed felt his heart galloping in his chest. He needed to take his hand away from Alastair’s. He had to. This was not acceptable anymore. In all truthiness, it had never been, but he hadn’t cared before. Now he _had_ to care. For his mother’s sake, and for Alastair’s sake as well. He had to free his hand. Now.

But maybe he could savor the contact for a second more.

Just one more second.

Well, maybe two.

Or three.

Or ten.

“Did you get your books?” asked Alastair, his words as warm and mellow as if he were reciting romantic poetry.

Jed blinked out of his trance. “What?”

“Mr. Bennett wanted me to make sure that you wouldn’t forget to bring your books.”

“The books?” Jed sighed. “Oh. I guess he wants them back. For his future students.”

Alastair frowned. “What are you talking about? Those are _your_ books. You’re going to need them to keep up with your lessons.”

Jed stared at his friend in shock.

Alastair mistook his silence for refusal. “Wait. You’re not giving up your studies, are you? I...” He looked crushed. “Please, don’t. You and I... You _can’t_ give up. I made Mother promise me...”

“I didn’t think your parents would let me continue…”

The relief in Alastair’s face was almost comical. “You dolt! Don’t scare me like that!” He laughed. “You are not escaping school, Jed.”

“I doubt I’ll have the time for lessons.”

“Of course you will. Tyndale will make sure of that. Per Mother’s instructions.”

“But Mr. Bennett…”

“Would be happy even if he had not been ordered to keep on teaching you. He was never good at hiding that you’re his favorite.”

“I am not!”

“Are too.” Alastair’s thumb caressed the back of Jed’s hand, softening the teasing in his words.

Jed looked down at Alastair’s hand, its soft, unblemished skin still wrapped around Jed’s dirty calluses.

It was wrong.

It was perfect.

Either way, it couldn’t go on.

“Alastair...” How could Jed make him understand...?

“You won’t call me Ally anymore?” Alistair whispered, his voice breaking.

Jed raised his gaze and found a whirlwind of emotions clouding his friend’s face.

Ally…

Since his father’s arrest, Jed had been making a herculean effort not to use the old nickname, not even in his private thoughts. “I no longer have any excuse to call you that.”

“Fool,” Alastair snickered. “You never had an excuse, not since we were older than toddlers, and you learned to say my name without stumbling.”

It was true, Jed couldn’t deny it. And he had been told repeatedly by dozens of people not to be too familiar toward Alastair, even while they studied and played together. Which was why Jed had only called him that when he was sure they were completely alone.

“It was my wish that you would call me so,” Alastair breathed. “It is _still_ my wish.”

Jed’s heart thudded in his ears, and he could feel his entire face burning red. He tried to speak, but his mind was a mess of sweet memories, bleak thoughts, and fear.

The two of them against the world. It had felt like that was the case sometimes, and Jed had savored the challenge, the thrill of defying the rules for the sake of a connection that meant everything to him, even more than blood. The stakes were so much higher now, though. Or perhaps he hadn’t quite realized before how easily he could lose the little he owned.

As the silence persisted, Alastair’s expression grew forlorn. “Unless that is not _your_ wish?”

“I…”

“Jed, I would never force you. You know that, right?” Alastair’s eyes glistened. “I would never command you to be my friend. It would be meaningless. If I haven’t rightfully earned your friendship…”

“Ally, shut your stupid mouth.”

Alastair gasped.

And the next moment, his face lit up in a joyful smile.

“ _‘Command’_ me,” Jed snorted. “Really? When have I _ever_ followed your orders?”

“Never,” Alastair admitted.

“And just so we’re clear, when I carry your books, it’s not because you’re my better, it’s because I’m trying to be nice.”

“I know,” Alastair giggled.

It was the most wonderful sound. Jed would never tire of hearing it.

“Go fetch your books, Jed.”

“Is that an order?

“I just want to carry them for you. It’s my turn.”

Jed nodded. However, he made no move towards his old bedroom. Instead, he stayed where he was, staring into the warm shades of Alastair’s eyes.

“Jed?” Alastair’s voice was full of laughter. “Are you going or not?”

“I am.” Jed took Ally’s other hand in his, squeezing his friend’s fingers lovingly. “In a moment.”

* * *

Jace reached out with his hands as he woke up, in search of the fading contact. He would have sworn that he could still the feel the warmth of someone else’s skin against his palms.

He felt bereft now, with nothing to hold on to, as if something treasured had been suddenly robbed from him.

Without opening his eyes, he brushed his fingertips against his parabatai rune, blindly drawing its lines as carefully as Alec had when he placed the mark there all those years ago. The touch brought him solace. And the gentle _tug_ he sensed in reply from the other end of the bond cleared his troubled heart for a moment and brought a sleepy smile to his face.

_You are never alone._

Startled, Jace opened his eyes and found Brother Zachariah standing by the foot of his bed, holding a witchlight in a way that brightened the room with no more than a dim luminescence.

“Whoa! Creepy! What the hell?!” He cringed then, remembering that the Silent Brother was there to treat him, not to spy him in his sleep. “Uh… I mean…”

Jace wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought one of Zachariah’s brows might have arched a fraction of an inch. _I was referring to your bond._

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Jace wondered if the red in his cheeks was visible in the pale light. Not that it mattered. Zachariah would be able to read his embarrassment in his thoughts.

Jace did his best not to cower before Zachariah’s penetrating gaze, which somehow spooked him so much more than the stitched eyelids of the other Brothers.

_What is the color of your parabatai’s eyes?_

‘Blue,’ was the answer Jace’s brain supplied automatically, before his synapses woke up properly.

Blue? What?!

It was absurd, but the face filling Jace’s mind now had very fair skin, blond hair, and light blue eyes. And a tiny birthmark on a cleft chin.

“Hazel,” he murmured hoarsely. He cleaned this throat and repeated, “Alec has hazel eyes.”

Zachariah did not reply, merely nodding minutely, before leaving the room.

There was no question, though, that he had seen the image Jace’s mind had produced.

What did it all mean, though? What did _any_ of it mean? Did Zachariah know? Or at least guessed? And if he did, would he tell Jace, or was it one of those things one had to work it out on their own?

Jace sighed. Three nights in this place, and so far he hadn’t found any concrete answers, only more exasperating questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream in this chapter was inspired by Thomas’s childhood as described in the _Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Series_ of detective novels by Anne Perry.


	4. Valmy, France, 1792

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all you need is one victory to turn the tables on your enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Another plume for this new chapter. I'm going to use this opportunity to say a big thank you to **shirasade** for setting up this round robin, it's a lot of fun for all us writers involved, and I hope it is as much fun for you too, dear readers!  
> The reincarnation part of this chapter is set during the French Revolution, on 20 September 1792, during which the Battle of Valmy took place.

His room was cold but Jace had slowly grown accustomated to it over the days. It was almost soothing in its bareness, the narrow bed, desk and drawer enough for him not to feel like a prisoner in it, but rather like someone in a spiritual retreat in a monastery. After all, if his room was closer to a monk’s cell than to his bedroom at the Institute, he might as well try to think of it as something other than a _prisoner’s cell_.

( _Those_ were a lot worse than the room he was actually occupying, after all, and he knew it firsthand.)  

The past few days had been uneventful, compared to those following his arrival – three strange dreams in as many days, which had been more than unsettling – but the past week had been quiet on that side. He had had dreamless nights and a few nightmares, but nothing that could compare to those that had plagued his sleep before he had let himself being convinced by Alec to go the City of Bones.

 _Alec…_ the mere thought of his parabatai brought a smile to his lips, and his hand went to touch the rune on his left flank, over his clothes. Despite the layers, he could feel the heat radiating from it, reminding him that he wasn’t alone – had never been, ever since they had bound their souls together, so many years ago, and despite everything they had been through. The bond was almost buzzing, a gentle and soothing reminder that he still had a future side by side with Alec, as parabatai ought to.  

The idea was more than welcome, and he was almost going to let himself drift away in some daydreaming – that he wouldn’t have indulged in if he had been at the Institute, but here, in the safety of his monastic cell, he was in peace to fantasize about a thousand tomorrows with his parabatai.

_This can be your future, if you so wish it to be._

A voice resonated in his head, intruding, and he turned away, raising an eyebrow at Brother Zachariah, who was looking at him with an undecipherable expression – as was usually the case with the Silent Brothers.

“I beg your pardon?” Jace said with some incredulity, the tips of his ears reddening despite the rather ordinary future he had been entertaining.

 _Being at his side while he is Head of the Institute_ , Brother Zachariah said, face unreadable except for the light in his eyes. _Two heads govern better together than only one_ , he added, almost as an after-thought.

“No one will want me at as the co-Head of the Institute,” Jace said slowly in return, frowning a little. “The Clave would not allow it, especially not after what happened…”

His voice faltered a little and he looked away as the bleakness of his situation made itself palpable again.

_This wasn’t your fault. Lilith –_

“I know what she did,” Jace mumbled, not caring that he had interrupted the Silent Brother. He looked at his hands, half-expecting to see blood staining them, as it had happened in his nightmares before.

_You were a prisoner in your own body._

“I know that, you already told me.”

_Then perhaps it is time you start listening to us, Jonathan Herondale. Perhaps it is time you give yourself the permission to forgive yourself._

Jace turned his head around to look at the Silent Brother so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. Incredulous, he looked at Brother Zachariah for a few moments of silence before rising to his feet, feeling suddenly furious.

“What do you mean, give myself _permission_ to forgive myself?! I _want_ to get better! I know this wasn’t _my fault_!”

His voice broke up and he choked on his words, before falling back on his bed as suddenly as he had gotten up. His hands were shaking a little and blood was buzzing in his ears as a wave of emotions threatened to submerge him. Brother Zachariah was unmoving, deep eyes still looking fiercely at him. Silence stretched for a long time before he spoke again, his words resonating in Jace’s head as if they were in a cathedral.

_You feel guilty for what happened – because you feel you failed as a Shadowhunter. You did not. Even the bravest warrior gets hurt in battle, and suffer the ache of old wounds for years afterwards. Dreams speak of things we are not fully ready to accept and confront yet._

“Easy to say,” Jace mumbled before looking at Brother Zachariah again. “But I disagree. I take full responsibility of what has been done with my body.”

_You take blame that doesn’t belong to you. Don’t you think you have enough guilt to shoulder already?_

The acrid smell of the activated Soul Sword was in his nose again and Jace could almost feel its energy running though his veins. Oh, it had burnt deeply, but that small pain had been nothing compared to the overwhelming feeling of guilt he had felt since. So many innocents had died by his hand, when he had thought to protect them… But wasn’t the road to hell paved with his good intentions?

But it hadn’t been his fault. It had been Valentine’s, who had banked on his intervention to carry out his plan. Alec had been intent on reminding him of that, too – so maybe it was indeed truly time he learnt to forgive himself…

Jace remained silent for a moment, pondering his words. This conversation was nothing new – he had had it with the Silent Brothers almost every day since he had arrived, as they considered he needed to talk about what had happened to him since…

Well, since his childhood, if he was being honest – and Valentine Morgenstern had an even worse reputation now among the Silent Brothers, which was no small feat.

“So, those nightmares are my guilt speaking,” he finally said slowly, turning to make eye-contact with Brother Zachariah. “Okay, I can get behind that.”

There was a hesitation at the end of his sentence, and it hung heavy in the air. He hesitated speaking his next words, wondering if _saying_ them would make the dreams more real, all of a sudden.

“What about the _other_ dreams, then?” he finally said, tentatively. “They’re not guilt talking.”

_No, they are not._

“What, then?”

Brother Zachariah remained silent, looking at him, unblinking, before nodding once and leaving his monastic cell, closing the door quietly behind him. Perplexed, Jace looked at the wooden panel, wondering what this was supposed to mean.

Brother Zachariah knew something was up, but wouldn’t share what it was – that much he could tell. Nothing dangerous, then – but something he would have to looked into on his own.

How was he supposed to do that from the City of Bones?

ooOoo

The smell of gunpowder was strong in his nose, almost making him choke to get rid of the dust in his mouth, but he bit back his whine, focusing on the battlefield at his feet him. He had been able to hear the clamor miles away, _“Vive la nation! Vive la nation_ _!”_ and only the stubbornness of the captain of the small group of soldiers accompanying him and his fellow emissary had convinced him to remain far behind the front line.

“We really ought to get closer to our positions, the Convention will want a detailed report of the battle,” the man to his left said and Alexandre slightly turned to look at him, a bit nonplussed.

His fellow emissary was a bit too enthusiast to be close to the battlefield to his tastes.

“Those damn Prussians could still attack,” the captain said with a growl, “and I don’t want to have to explain to our deputies why the emissaries they sent for report are _dead_.”

“No one would blame you if we were hit by a loose cannonball, _capitaine_ ,” Alexandre pointed out, cheeks reddening a little when the gruff soldier laughed at him.

“Of course they would, monsieur!” His tone mellowed a little as the clamors from their side grew bigger and stronger, over the noise of the cannons firing again and again. “And I wouldn’t forgive myself either. The Convention gave me a mission and I intend on carrying it out to the end.”

Alexander nodded a little before turning his attention to the battlefield, trying to get a closer look at the action unfolding. His binoculars were covered by a faint layer of dust, making it difficult to differentiate the blue of the citizen volunteers from the blue of the Prussian army. Still, he could see enough to know that the Prussian soldiers were slowly but surely retreating under the clamors of the revolutionaries, cannons firing with a singular regularity.

This would be great news to report back to the National Convention, freshly elected at the beginning at the month and who had just assembled for the first time in the morning, deciding to send two emissaries to report on the battle in Valmy. The revolutionary forces had been fighting against the Prussian army for a good month now, since mid-August 1792, and the losses that had occurred ever since had done nothing good for the morale of the country.

Still, things seemed to be shaping up better now – and maybe those damn foreign monarchs would learn to mind their own business, rather than middling into French matters.

“General Kellermann will want to see you, messieurs,” the captain went on after a moment, once it was clear that they could get closer without risking to be hit by a lost cannonball. “We should go back to the camp and wait there until the retreat of the Prussians is done.”

He spat on the ground, a gesture that was mirrored by the other soldiers that had constituted their personal guard during their ride from Paris to Valmy. Despite the heat of the day and the dust that was covering them, despite the raging sound of the cannonballs around them, Alexandre could feel elicitation in the air, and from the looks on the faces of his fellow citizens, he wasn’t the only one.

“Let’s get moving, then,” Alexandre said with a little nod, motioning for the captain to lead the way.

He had never known his way around a military camp, given his poor lungs and his bad eyesight, and even the numerous letters of Jonathan hadn’t been enough to prepare him for the sight that welcomed him as they rode away from the battlefield.

_Jonathan._

His heart missed a beat at the thought of his oldest and dearest friend. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time, with him stuck in Paris while the Assembly had been trying to find a way to fight off the advance of the Prussian army, while Jonathan had been on the battlefield effectively fighting against the enemies of the Revolution. There had been rumors – growing into admitted facts, although true or not, Alexandre didn’t know – for a few weeks now that the King had done his hardest to stop the Revolutionary army from defending the Kingdom, preferring letting it fall at the hands of the Prussians rather than abiding by the Assembly any longer.

Alexander frowned at the idea, feeling disgust grow at the mere thought of the King and his treacherous, Austrian wife – him and _l’Autrichienne_ had been fighting the decisions of the elected Assembly every step of the way – but his brief annoyance soon disappeared as they rode into the camp, where the barbers and physicians were tending to the wounded, the atmosphere light despite the current predicament of the soldiers.

“The emissaries of the Convention are here to report on the result of the battle!” the captain clamored as they arrived, cheers welcoming them.

“We won!” someone yelled, cheers growing louder while people were clapping loudly.

Alexander felt himself smile a little at the spectacle before his grin grew bigger as he spotted the tall frame of his friend. Jonathan was here, talking animatedly with a physician, dust and blood mixing on his clothes – and yet, he had never looked so beautiful.

Something tugged in his stomach and Jonathan turned to look in his direction, eyes crinkling as he recognized him. He went to them as fast as he could, limping, a bandage around his thigh, with one physician trailing behind him, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, monsieur La Tour ! I can count on you to keep him seated tonight, if I may ask?” the physician said with some irony – and Alexandre laughed a little, finally recognizing the man.

This particular physician had tended to more of Jonathan’s battlefield wounds that Alexandre cared to remember – and they had almost grown on a first name basis by now, after all those years. The physician was still hesitant to abide by such familiarity, even though Alexandre had dropped the “ _de_ ” of his surname three years ago – as he came from an old but quite poor noble family, and had found it safer for his future to drop the unmistakable syllable that marked his ancestry.

Jonathan, after all, came from a moderately wealthy bourgeois family and had had a much brighter life than him so far, health issues notwithstanding.

“Of course, monsieur!” Alexandre answered quickly, giving away the reins of his horse to a young boy who clearly had no place on the battlefield despite the stubble he was sporting.

“General Kellermann will be joining us once he is done with the retreat,” the other emissary said with a little smile as a bigger clamor suddenly erupted “which won’t be long, I presume.”

“The Convention will be delighted to hear of the success of the army,” Alexandre said before being engulfed in an embrace, heartbeat finally setting as he melted against the warmth of the body against him, sweat and gunpowder not enough to draw Jonathan’s scent out.

It was a short hug as Jonathan wasn’t too strong on his legs, but no one was paying them any attention when they separated, clasping each other on the back and shoulders, bright smiles on their faces. He waved at the other envoy before turning around, one arm against Jonathan’s torso as they walked away. Soldiers were whistling around them, and Alexandre even heard someone singing softly _“Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates on les pendra_ _!”_ as they made their way to the quarters, Jonathan limping against him.

It was slightly cooler inside the tents, and Alexandre had to wait for a few seconds before getting used to the obscurity, even more intense compared to the bright light of the outside. Jonathan let himself fall onto the first seat he could spot, pushing away a leather bag that was in the way.

“By god, Alexandre, _mon ami_ , you are a sight for sore eyes!” he claimed, sweat beading at his temple as he settled more comfortably. “I’m afraid this won’t be as comfortable as my flat in Paris but –”

“I don’t care,” Alexandre interrupted him before cusping his face between his hands and kissing him soundly.

Jonathan made a sound that was similar to a yelp – although he would have denied it otherwise – and literally melted into the kiss, putting his hands on Alexandre’s hips to bring him closer, fingers digging deep into the skin. Their reunions were always electric and today was no exception, despite the trouble they knew they would get into if someone were to walk into the tent at the wrong time.

They finally separated after a long moment, panting for breath, and Alexandre moved to the side, searching for another seat to bring closer, a redness to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat in the room. Jonathan’s green eyes were warm on his back, following him as he made his way around the tent before finding what he had been looking for – a jug of wine and two glasses, as well as a piece of bread.

“We will have a real feast once you come back to Paris, mon ami,” Alexandre said firmly once everything was settled on the little table they were both sitting close to, Jonathan’s wounded leg resting at a comfortable angle.

“Any meal with you is a feast, Alexandre,” Jonathan said in a warm voice, putting his hand on Alexandre’s forearm.

The blush on his cheeks deepening.

Oh, he had missed this warm voice and those deep eyes looking at him as if he was water in the desert – and from the look on Jonathan’s face, he wasn’t the only one who had been eager for their reunion.

“One more battle you’re walking away from victorious,” Alexandre said after a moment, slightly turning his hand so that their fingers were linked together.

It wouldn’t last – it never did – but the connection was enough for his frayed nerves to definitely settle, leaving him content and grounded in the present time.

“Victory is nothing when you can’t celebrate it with those you love,” Jonathan said, eyes bright in the dim light of the tent – and oh, there it was again, this warm feeling inside him that had appeared since he had first laid eyes on Jonathan, when they were but mere boys, and had been growing steadily ever since.

More than two decades had passed and he couldn’t help but be amazed at the strength of their friendship – and of everything that had come out of it, from the uncertain passion of their youth to the certainty that was now binding them as one.

Jonathan squeezed their intertwined fingers together, a soft expression on his face, and tugged him a little closer, fingers gently trailing on his cheek before cupping his neck. Alexander easily followed his lead, eyes fluttering as he melted into the kiss, gentler and more companionable now that they had sated their hunger of each other a little.

More people were walking around the tents, talking animatedly, and they could both hear _“Vive la nation! Vive la nation!”_ being clamored every so often, cheers following every time.

“Today is a golden dawn,” Jonathan said with a seriousness that was close to a promise, eyes still shining bright.

Alexandre believed him.

ooOoo

Alec woke up with a start, the smell of gunpowder still strong in his nose, hand reaching out for _something_ at his side, surprised and disappointed by the emptiness on the other side of the bed. He felt a little dizzy and disoriented and, for the briefest of moments, wondered why he was sleeping in a comfortable bedroom rather than in a military tent in the countryside.

“What the hell?” he mumbled quietly, leg jerking suddenly – and the familiar noise of a book falling from his bed to the ground made itself heard, leaving him to groan out loud.

He had brought his exemplary of _The Complete Works of the Seelie Idulalin_ back to his room, Jace’s bookmark still in place, and had taken to read it again, mind in turmoil over the dreams of the past few days that had left him pretty unsettled.

One week of peaceful sleep – well, as peaceful as it could be, after the war – and now another dream that had left him with a warm feeling all over.

Alec squinted a little as he bent over his bed to get his poetry book, wondering why the light seemed so strange, before realizing he was still expecting the same lighting that had been present in his dream, with voices chanting in the background. He frowned, focusing on the noise, before realizing it came from people animatedly talking in the corridors – and passing in front of his door – rather than from soldiers singing revolutionaries chants.

He caught himself humming the same tune there had been in his dream, the words on the tip of his tongue before definitely disappearing from his mind.

The _Complete Works of the Seelie Idulalin_ had opened at the same page he had been reading before falling asleep and his eyes drifted back to it, re-reading the lines that had become almost familiar over the past few days. The words stuck to him now that he was studying them, feeling a short pang in the parabatai rune – and he absent-mindedly put a hand to it, stroking it in a soothing manner. The gesture had become familiar since Jace’s departure to the City of Bones, ten days ago, and he hadn’t realized how closer to his parabatai it made him feel until now – as if it were Jace’s hand touching him, and not his own. He missed deeply his parabatai, down to his bones.

_From one dream to one mind_

_One sight within the wind_

_Through time, behold, our hearts_

_Our souls will never part_

The poem felt almost too intimate, and he wondered, not for the first time, where the strange dreams had come from. He couldn’t quite believe they were just _dreams_ anymore. Once or twice, he could put that up to a coincidence – a strange one, maybe, but he missed Jace dearly and wanted him at his side, happy and safe, his nightmares nothing but a bad memory – but three? _Four_? And with different versions of Jace every time?

And that unmistakable connection between them, the pull he had felt every time, as lovers (and he still felt his cheeks warming a little every time he thought about that one), as strangers, as children, and now as adults who had known each other for a lifetime?

For far longer than a lifetime, apparently.

Rising from his bed, he moved to his desk, getting the little notebook he had started to use after the third dream to keep track of what was happening, and wrote down that he remembered before the last traces of sleep could erase the remnants of his dream from his mind.

The parabatai bond pulsed gently deep within and he moved his hand to the rune, pressing into the skin, trying to send some kind of reassurance to Jace – not that he needed it, as far as he could tell, but still, it felt nice to remind him there was someone waiting for him, outside of the City of Bones.

That they were never truly alone in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translation:  
>  _"Vive la nation!"_ = Long live the nation!  
>  _capitaine_ = captain  
>  _messieurs_ = gentlemen/sirs  
>  _l'Autrichienne_ = the Austrian (Marie-Antoinette's nickname)  
>  _monsieur La Tour_ = sir La Tour  
>  _“Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates on les pendra!”_ = "Ah! It'll be fine, It'll be fine, It'll be fine, the aristocrats, we'll hang them!", a French Revolutionary song  
>  _mon ami_ = my friend
> 
> The four lines of poetry are from me so no stealing/reusing elsewhere without explicit permission from my part please.


	5. Pompeii, 79AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In that one moment, despite all the chaos, the world was still for the two of them.

Alec groaned, rubbing his hands over his face as he walked away from another meeting with the Downworlder Council. Though he’d been groomed to handle politics his entire life it wasn’t easy. There was sometimes a level of what he considered irrationality (though he knew that was the Shadowhunter in him talking, that voice that sounded like the Clave and centuries of prejudice) that came out of the meetings that always gave him a headache and this one had run so long that by the time he'd emerged, the sun had long since set and exhaustion was buried deep in his bones.

He hadn't spoken to Jace properly for a long time, now. The message he'd responded to had been nearly a week ago, now, and except for the occasional gentle nudge against his side, the soft throb of his parabatai bond, Alec had heard little as to how Jace was getting on, how the treatment was going. What the treatment entailed, even. 

The temptation to visit him had been strong, it would have been easy for him to slip away for a few hours. If not just to remind himself that Jace was okay. With a few notable exceptions (notable because they had all been _disasterous_ ) they hadn't ever been truly apart for a long time.

_You're never alone, not anymore_.

He blinked, the thought coming to him almost unbidden; the day after the parabatai ceremony when they'd been giddy with the new sensations, he'd said that to Jace. Prompted by a surge of emotion through the bond. He supposed it was true, separated by distance - big or small - the bond was still there, pulsing. Jace's presence was still a brush in the back of his mind. He could still _feel_ him. It was a sharp contrast to that moment when the bond had disappeared, the pain that had wracked him when he'd felt Jace die and knew categorically that something awful had happened.

Changing into his pyjama pants, trying to shed the work day, Alec sat on the edge of his bed and pulled the journal towards him. Though only the third - and now fourth - dreams were written in full, he had tried to note down feelings from the earlier ones. Tried to piece together what fractured memories he had that stuck with him. Eye colours. Places. Warmth. Feelings he associated with Jace in the waking world. 

He didn't understand what the dreams meant, or if he was really feeling his connection to Jace more open than it had ever been during those first sleepy moments as he opened his eyes each morning, but he knew they were important. For whatever reason, he knew they were important. 

A fire message flickered across his vision and he curled his lips up into a smile. _I think sleeping on the floor would be more comfortable_ it said. _Would it kill them to invest in heating?_

Alec's fingers caught on his stele and he chuckled back as he replied _If you're too awake to complain they aren't making you work hard enough._

He didn't get a reply, but he did feel the familiar pressure against his side, the warmth of Jace pressing against his parabatai rune. He did the same, closed his journal and picked up the book that he'd picked up in a little bookstore after Izzy had mentioned something off-hand about someone in her mundane therapy group trying it. _A Field Guide to Lucid Dreaming_.

It read like nonsense, but Alec was determined to truly experience his dreams. Remember them. Understand them.

Settling under the sheets, back propped up against the headboard and light on, Alec opened the front cover and began to read.

\---

The sun barely shone in through the blinds as Aelius stirred. They had been up late trying to help clear the debris and ash off of nearby buildings until late into the night when they'd had to retire, exhausted and aching they had no energy to do anything more than curl up together and sleep. He pushed his fingers through his dark hair and yawned, stretching his hands up towards the ceiling and then rubbed them over his face, pushing himself out of bed. His feet hit the tiled floor that rumbled slightly beneath his toes as he got out of bed, noticing that the other half of it was empty. It was hardly a surprise; the other side of the bed was always empty but it warmed him no less to remember the gentle brush of kisses against his lips, how his body had pressed against the firm lines of Valens' when they'd lain together night after night. 

It was hardly a secret; his sister knew and she was happy though she was aware that their parents would be displeased. For Aelius to be partnered with a man was one thing - a layover from their time with their land neighbours and oft times rivals meant that that was hardly frowned upon - but the fact that Valens was a former slave from Britannia, one that had been gifted to their family when he was a child was something altogether.

Aelius had never considered Valens to be a slave. In fact, as soon as he had come of age and taken over his father's estate following his death the first thing he had done was granted Valens his freedom. _Go and wander the world_ , he had said, _See the things you have always dreamed of seeing as a free man. You are no longer bound here._

Valens had looked at him with those mismatched eyes that had always held such fascination and had reached out, fingers curling around the sharp lines of Aelius' jaw and pulled him close. _I am bound_ he had breathed, _For where you go, I go._

It had happened after that, and only when Valens had been a free man. Even then, it had taken Aelius a long time to accept that there was no power imbalance between them. For, in reality, it was Valens who held all the power. He always had done. His smile made Aelius weak at the knees. His laugh caused the sun to rise, he was quite sure of it. It was rich and bright and whenever the sound of it met Aelius' ears, he wanted to praise the Gods for making such a man. For creating someone so perfect for him that he would have willingly given his life for them a hundred times over so that Valens would live a long life. 

He moved through his home, dressed now in a robe secured around his waist with a dark red sash. He was due in the Basilica later for a meeting around what to do with the ash that had fallen the day before, heavy as sand over the rooftops, about what to do with the mountain that was still pouring heat into the sky and about what to do to help the few people from Herculaneum that had escaped the mudslide and were seeking sanctuary. As one of the leading families in Pompeii, he was aware that his absence would be noticed even though he really had no desire to do anything other than spend the day with Valens.

Long fingers, calloused from his time learning the noble art of archery, brushed along the table in the kitchen, snagging on a note scrawled in Valens' terrible handwriting: _Gone to help with clean up. Be back soon._ He chuckled and picked a piece of fruit from the bowl beside the note. He should do the same.

He thought about visiting the temple before his meeting in the Basilica but decided against it; there would be time for prayers later. There would be time for everything, later. He barely had time to wonder how long he had slept in before there was another rumble beneath his feet. The ground shook often and like most of the other residents in Pompeii, he paid it no mind. 

Stepping out onto the patio, he turned his face to the sun when the ground shook again, rumbling harder than before. He caught his fingers on the balcony and turned to see the mountain belching smoke into the sky, higher than Aelius had ever seen anything in his life, higher than yesterday. It had clearly been pouring into the sky for a while as the sun was disappearing again, the same as it had the day before, blotted out by the fumes from the mountain.

The air was feeling hot, though. Stifling for so early in the morning. He withdrew from the patio, overcome with a need to find Valens, to not be alone right now.

Barefooted, Aelius rushed out into the streets of Pompeii that were already becoming chaotic. He could hear people calling out to flee, to escape to the sea that had begun to retreat from the shore as if in preparation for what was coming. Dark eyes turned to the heavens, watching the smoke pouring from the mountain as it stretched across the sky like the spidery shadows of a large tree as the sunset. The rising heat around him was a stark contrast to the cold dread that was running through his body. 

"Valens!"

The call was lost in the madness, his shout swallowed by dozens of others, people calling for their loved ones and their families to get together and evacuate. 

"Valens!"

His feet hurried, the stones felt like they were burning his skin though there was precious little sun to do so. Smoke belched again, the sound rumbling through the air deafeningly loud. Someone screamed and Aelius turned his head in time to see fire, the mountain glowed and belched once more and bodies collided with him as he stood his ground a full head above most of his peers, looking for any sign of-

Valens was there and for a moment it felt as though the world slowed down. He was dirt-smudged and his eyes were shining, his blond hair that made him stand out as a Briton was pale with ash. Aelius elbowed his way through people running in the opposite direction and he pulled Valens into his arms as the other man's went around his waist, pushed restlessly up his back and then shifted to thread into his hair. 

"We have to get inside," Aelius breathed against his lover's forehead, fingers buried in the blond strands. 

The air around them was getting hotter. Down the mountainside, rapidly hurrying towards them was a glowing cloud. It looked formidable, an angry mound of lightning filled terror rolling towards them. What trees had survived the slide the night before were alight before being hit. 

"It's too late," Valens' response was breathy, his voice trembling. His fingers twisted in Aelius' hair and the taller of the two laughed weakly. They were stood together in their own tableau, there was no point in running as they could not escape. Whatever their fate may be, they faced it together.

"Do you wish you had left to travel the world now?" Aelius asked, looking into his lover's eyes, one blue and one brown, and Valens just leaned up to kiss him and it was all the answer either of them needed.

When the heat struck, it was too fast for them to have even registered the pain. Their bodies dropped where they stood, away from their home but wrapped in each other, reflexively curled for though it was a futile gesture, at the last minute Aelius had tried to shield his lover from the blast. 

They fell together as they had in life, twisted and entwined, foreheads touching and arms entwined, still and peaceful as, once again, ash started falling like snow.

\---

He jerked awake, his mouth tasted like fire and ash and a name that wasn't anyone's on his lips. His fingers felt empty, his chest was tight with panic and a fear unlike anything he'd ever felt before and he lurched upwards, pushing his fingers into his hair to try and settle himself, feeling the ghost of someone else’s hand in the strands, the absence of the touch stark in the forefront of his mind. 

Jace kicked the thin sheets off, they were suffocating, tangled around his legs. He got to his feet, restless energy overcoming him. He reached for the glass of water he had beside his bed with a hand that shook and as he looked at it, for the briefest moments it felt alien. Not his. But, of course, it was. And he was with the Silent Brothers and when he was done here he could go home to Aelius. No. Alec. Back to _Alec_ , and the Institute. And his friends. His family. If he still had a place there. If he still had a place as the Parabatai of the head of the New York Institute. If he still... 

_You do._

He jumped, gritting his teeth at the invasion once again. Jace knew if he was able to move half as silently as the Silent Brothers (hah, of course, they move silently) he'd be an even more efficient fighter, and that was saying something.

_You have a place with him._

"That's not what I was thinking," Jace retorted hotly. "Everyone says they understand, that they trust me. You've said so yourself that it wasn't me, it was Lilith. The Owl. Valentine. But you don't see how some of them-"

_I do not need to see._

In spite of everything, Jace felt himself snort. "No," he replied, "I guess none of you does."

Not one to be derailed by Jace's humour, Brother Zachariah continued. _We have spoken at length about carrying guilt that is not yours, about forgiveness._

"And I don't want to rehash it right his minute," Jace said with a heavy sigh. A sigh that he felt come straight from his soul. He pressed his hand reflexively against that rune, feeling a surge of worry ripple through him that he knew didn't belong to him. "I'm no closer to understanding what these dreams mean." Or why it felt like Alec might be having them too.

_So tell me about them._

"I don't remember a lot of it," Jace said immediately, not wanting to delve into some of the details. They felt private. Intimate. 

_So tell me what you remember. Start with last night's._

Jace tilted his head, "Were you just waiting outside for me to wake up?" Though, before he could get an answer - he spotted the slight head lift that came before the rumbling voice in his mind, he held up a hand, "Never mind. I'm not sure I actually want to know the answer."

_The dream, Jace._

"I don't think it'll help."

_You don't know until you try._

Jace knew that logic was flawed, but he didn't want to argue with Brother Zachariah right now. Instead, he just took a deep breath and stared at a point in the wall. "I died," he started, "W-we died."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This reincarnation was doomed from the start. They, at least, had some time together before Vesuvius erupted.


	6. Cold, ~1000CE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream takes place in an arctic land (I had Canada in mind), somewhere around 1000CE.

As Jace settles into bed that night, he thinks about his earlier conversation with Brother Zachariah.

Jace had explained much of the dreams to Brother Zachariah, but the parts he'd most strongly and vividly remembered were those containing the details that seemed intimate, and he'd held them back. It did not go unnoticed, but it hadn't hampered their discussion materially; Brother Zachariah seemed to have understood more than Jace even with less information.

Jace suspected he himself was just too close to accept certain possibilities yet, too afraid while he still remembered the burn of the ashy death. Yet Brother Zachariah had not been inclined share, providing frustratingly little in terms of answers, pushing Jace to find them within himself, and - Jace suspected - within another.

 _Alec_.

~

 _Do not hold back,_ urged Brother Zachariah. 

Jace bowed his head, fiddling intently with his hands, aching for a blade to twirl.

_You need not be ashamed of these dreams._

“They just don’t feel like they’re entirely mine to share…” Jace said, squirming, wanting to protect Alec, fearing it may not be safe for the Silent Brothers and the Clave to know that Alec was having them too, if Jace was right.

_Those you wander with at night - I can assure you they do not need your protection. They have not needed protection, nor anything at all, for some time._

“Sure... 'cause they’re dream people…” Jace said, weakly pretending this was what he meant, even though he knew deep down they were much more.

Brother Zachariah shook his head. _I did not say they never had need._

“They’re dead," Jace said softly, unsure why he found the words for it in this moment.

_Yes. But you have known this in your heart before now._

“I guess…" Jace conceded, running a hand back through his hair, "...but I think I wasn’t sure, not until this last one, where I saw-- felt uh--them die. Like I told you.”

Brother Zachariah nodded approvingly. _What else can you tell me about these dreams?_

Jace shrugged, feeling far too exhausted for having just woken up.

_I cannot help you if you do not trust me._

"You'll have to forgive me but the Clave has at times been less than supportive," Jace said coolly, attempting to channel Alec at his most diplomatic.

_I am not the Clave; I understand the sacred bond. The bond is not merely their weapon. The bond is yours._

"Mine. Ours," Jace hummed under his breath. _By the Angel_ he wanted to talk to Alec. In person. To say what? - he didn't know. But scant fire messages soon weren't going to cut it.

 _Speak_. Brother Zachariah instructed, but did not demand.

Jace got up, arms crossed, and paced one length of the room before obeying. "We die. I guess we die every time… eventually..."

 _You’ve died once already, in this life_ , Brother Zachariah reminded him.

~

Like Jace could have forgotten the horrible chill that had hollowed him out and let something sinister crawl inside... the physical _snap_ of his life, the recoil propelling him backwards into the dark... the pointed ache of his broken bond.

 _The greatest pain a Shadowhunter can feel is the loss of his parabatai._ But no one ever spared a thought for the other of the pair, whose last fleeting moment of life is doomed to feel their parabatai in all agony.

Then, the cold.

*** *** ***

It's freezing. Body numb, snow swirling, thick flakes turned up and up again; he can hardly pick up his feet, he can barely see.

Until he can. There’s a soft glow ahead, one that in this weather can only mean shelter. And fire.

But it also means people, and people are dangerous. Still, little risk to weigh when he'll surely die in the elements like the rest of his hunting party.

He stumbles into the cave, eyes burning to take in the sudden light, frozen nostrils filling with the scent of animal carcasses long frozen and now thawed.

Only one person sits by the fire, propped up against the cave wall, not looking much warmer than he.

~

A stumbling shadow falls over the light. At first he worries it’s a bear, come to re-claim the cave. Wrecked with the loss of his family - what had set him out on this treacherous journey - he thinks that may be a mercy.

But instead it’s a man, or at least he guesses from the broad shoulders and lanky height. The figure approaches with caution, slowly, and sits across the fire.

They wait in silence for long minutes, until the newcomer warms up enough to free himself of some of the winter garb covering his face and head.

The other studies his companion's face, now exposed, and judges him to be a young man around his own age. But he does not know him by sight.

He offers a greeting.

~

They talk for hours, about how they got there, those they lost, what they want if they ever make it out of the cave.

They speak of things not fit for strangers. Their unspoken excuse - true in logic but false in their hearts - to stay awake. Sleep means the fire going out, never to start again. Sleep means missing the window of calm in the storm to escape. Sleep means being snuck up on by predators. Sleep means death, maybe.

~

He takes his hand from his mitt and digs around in his bag, withdrawing from it a handful of berries. He pops a few in his mouth, then offers his hand to the other, who likewise removes his mitt. Skin touches skin.

It's warm, perhaps as warm as they'll ever be again.

~

The storm rages on, the wind has shifted, blowing icy gusts into the cave, threatening the fire until it retreats to a sapling flicker.

What purpose to have met for these hours, then to die? For comfort? To walk hand and hand, paired only in death?

They tire, huddled, curled.

*** *** ***

Alec begins to drift awake. He’s freezing in his core and it stings, but his toes and fingers are numb.

 _No_. Alec fights against consciousness, needing to know if _they’ll_ live. He tries to relax, to let himself sink back, like the lucid dreaming book instructed.

But there’s resistance, something fighting against being pulled back into the cold.

 _Someone_.

 _Jace_.

Alec is startled, he can practically feel Jace there, ghostly fingers grasping at him, but there's nothing there.

Concentration shot, diverted by the need to reach for Jace, Alec forgets what he's trying to do, and feels himself being dragged to the surface, into warmth.

He wants to go towards it, but he also wants to return to the men in the cave, _wants to see_. Alec tries to speak this, but it’s not words he forms - of course the bond doesn’t work that way - but he conveys the message nonetheless.

 _No, please_ , is the abstract reply he receives, trusting, but a little scared, struggling to understand, _Why?_

Alec relents, an apology sent as his fingers find their rune on his hip, his only grounding, as they tumble out of the dream into their beds, far away.


	7. Tiron Abbey, France, 11th century AD

A gentle knock sounded on the door, dragging Alec out of his stupor. It was suffocatingly hot in his office, waves of heat billowing out from the fireplace, buffeting him into sleep. His eyes felt prickly and dry, his throat parched, limbs stiff. He’d been asleep—he had no idea how long. His chin was resting uncomfortably on a book, and his back was rather sore. Sensation filtered back into pin-pricked fingers as he straightened up, stretching and blinking hard, trying to throw off the sense of disorientation.  
  
“By the Angel, Alec,” Izzy said, pushing open the door— _thanks for asking, Iz_. She was smiling, but there was a tense edge to her eyes. She sounded caught between humor and worry, unsure of which to pick. “I haven’t seen you like this since our Junior Hunter exams.” She mimed drooling, holding her arm up to her forehead. “That was you and your book pillow, every single night for like, two months.”  
  
Alec cracked a smile, despite himself. He was tired, in the way that set into his bones and made his depth perception a little off, but the memories were, in the end, fond ones. “Not my fault you and Jace procrastinated and crammed.”  
  
Izzy flashed him a dazzling smile. “And I still out-scored both of you.” Before Alec could protest, a wonderful smell light up his senses, a white plastic bag landing on his desk. The creak of Styrofoam and the golden promise of fried foods instantly made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. For a second all his and Jace’s troubles seemed to melt away, dissolved by the promise of caloric intake. “Compliments of the Jade Wolf,” she said, with a conspiratorial wink. “Looks like Mom’s been making quite the impression on the manager.”  
  
Alec felt his eyes widen. “Mom and— _Luke_?”  
  
Izzy grabbed the top box and a pair of chopsticks and sat down in his favorite armchair, propping her heels up on the coffee table. The armchair inordinately comfortable, and the leather probably way too expensive to be eating takeout in. It had been an addition from Victor Aldertree’s tenure as head of the Institute, and it was probably the only net positive addition he’d made to the Lightwoods’ lives. In that light, Alec supposed it was only fair Izzy covered it in fried food grease. “You know, betrayed but still extremely muscular and sexy woman meets betrayed but still romantic werewolf—“  
  
“I’m not commenting on mom’s sex life, Iz. I mean...since when does she send us takeout with a heart drawn on it in Sharpie?”  
  
Izzy’s red-lipped smile fell somewhat, chopsticks clutching a chunk of chow mein chicken slowing on their way to her mouth. “I think...I think she’s worried about us, Alec. And everything that’s going on with...Jace, and you, and—she’s worried about all of us. And you’ve been acting so strangely—“  
  
“Strangely?” Something prickly swelled in Alec’s chest. If she knew—if she suspected— “What do you mean, strange?”  
  
“No, I don’t mean—Alec, you haven’t been sleeping, and...well, you did pull the Institute’s entire collection on lucid dreams, and don’t think Underhill didn’t tell me about that request to the Praetor for their materials on dreamwalking.” She gestured helplessly, accidentally flicking a bit of sauce onto the armchair. “I don’t want to pry, because it’s not my business, but it _is_ my business and...” she sucked in a breath, let it out. “I need to make sure you’re okay, too.”  
  
Alec held back a grimace. He’d been so frantic to diagnose that strange, hot pulsing in their bond, the inexplicable nighttime images and feelings, that he’d completely forgotten how his apparent madness would look to the outside eye. It couldn’t look good: Jace in the City of Bones and Alec flying to pieces, locked up in his office. Hadn’t Jia’s aides sent an email yesterday? He’d drafted a reply and never sent it—Raziel knows what she must be thinking. How had he lost track of things so fast? “Underhill told you?”  
  
Izzy shook her head. “Alec, you have to trust me. No one is talking like that. Our people—they look up to you, as a leader. Underhill flagged it because he wanted to make sure your credentials hadn’t been compromised, apparently there was some kind of problem at the Tokyo Institute and it was procedure. He came to me in complete confidence.” Her eyes met his, steady and hard, as if seeing through his hastily-constructed defenses. “But I’m not stupid, Alec. I know there’s something going on.”  
  
The usual protests would not come. That he was tired, just needed some sleep. That he’d been up working, lost track of things, he was fine, really. As he reached for each excuse they seemed to dematerialize under Izzy’s stare. A sigh loosed itself from deep in Alec’s chest chest. If he couldn’t trust Izzy, who could he trust? If he really was losing touch with reality, or there was something wrong with their bond—he needed her. _Jace_ needed her. They were Lightwoods, after all. They needed each other.   
  
“I...don’t know,” he admitted, and he hated the words as he said them. So inadequate to describe the fear, the worry, the _everything_. What he and Jace had was always beyond words, but for once this felt like a failure. “You’re right, something’s going on. Dreams. I don’t know if they’re part of the bond, or just stress, or just dreams and I’m overthinking it, or if there’s really something or if I’m just making it up all in my head because he’s _gone._ And every time I feel our bond I wonder—am I making that up too? Is he really okay? Am I just convincing myself he’s okay because that’s what I want to hear? What kind of _parabatai_ am I—I should be there with him, _wherever thou goest I will go_ —“  
  
“Oh, Alec,” said Izzy, and then she was there, and he was in her arms, and he had buried his face in her shoulder. He was crying, too, and her hair stuck to his face, and he felt kind of stupid but it felt good, too, her arms tight and strong around him, the silent words that flowed and said, _it’s okay, it’s okay_. His arms around her, too, her body warm and real and solid. Anchoring him. _This is real_.  “Alec, I’m sorry.”  
  
Alec shook his head, but she wouldn’t let go. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said, in half a whisper. “I didn’t want to add to what you’re going through, I didn’t want to worry you and—and mom—“  
  
“We were worried anyway, idiot,” Izzy whispered back, her voice breaking over the word _idiot_. “Everything Jace has been through, a part of you has been through, too.” Her arms tightened around him, so that he could feel the fierce pulse of her blood against his own, the crash of her heart. “You need this, too, Alec.”  
  
Because he could say nothing else, Alec said, in a slightly strained voice, “You’re crushing me, Iz.”  
  
Izzy let go, and he could see her own eyes were shining. She wiped at them, giving him a deliberate smile. The one that said she was hurting, but would put on a brave face. The same face she’d made when she’d defended Alec from the Brimwell brothers, knocking the feet out from under them with her staff. The one she’d worn as she hugged Jace goodbye, tucking some of her inedible cooking into his bag, and telling him to come back soon.  
  
The same one Jace had worn as he’d stepped into the portal, looking back one last time.  
  
“I must sound insane,” Alec said, once he’d gained more control of himself. “But I swear to you, Iz, it’s real. I can feel it. I don’t understand it but—it’s real.”  
  
“I believe you, Alec,” Izzy said, though her voice was tinged with an edge of doubt. “But I need you to understand—dreams, they aren’t therapy. They’re important, yes, and if you think they’re telling you something, maybe they are, but this isn’t a substitute for the help Jace is getting from the Silent Brothers. You...you understand that, right?”  
  
Alec cradled his head in his hands, propping his elbows on his desk. Scrubbed his hands down his face. It felt raw, hot, unpleasant. Wet from the tears. “I don’t understand anything, Iz. I don’t believe in ghosts, dreams, prophecies, any of that. Except for that one time with Clary and the mirror, which was weird,” he added.  
  
“And the time with Clary and Jace and the angel,” Izzy continued, thoughtfully. “Or that time Clary knew where I’d left my box of PopTarts, even though I’d looked for them everywhere.”  
  
“That’s because she stole them,” Alec said, not unsympathetically. He rubbed at his forehead. “Are you sure you believe me? I’m not sure I believe me.”  
  
“Honestly?” Izzy was back in the armchair, takeout box in hand. “I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure you’re not experiencing a psychotic break, if that helps. But you are overworked and stressed, and I know for a fact that’s the only meal you’ve had in 48 hours, so eat up.” She took another mouthful of chicken, chewing thoughtfully. “The way I see it, you can’t just never sleep again. Well, you could, and I wouldn’t put it past my dumb-ass older brother to try, but it won’t work. That’s a life tip from me, your medically-trained sister. So, best thing to do is collect data.” She waved her chopsticks at him. “Seriously, Alec, eat.”  
  
Alec thought about pointing out that he wasn’t in tune enough with his emotions to go from crying to eating without any kind of transition, but decided that was enough oversharing for one day. With a sigh, he grabbed the Styrofoam box and creaked it open, breaking apart the chopsticks with a satisfying _snap_. A wonderful smell accosted him, pot-stickers and moo shu (his favorite) with a healthy side of egg rolls and plenty of fried rice, and his stomach gave a resounding growl. He took a large chunk of egg and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing experimentally. It was odd to have food in his mouth again but now that he had swallowed it felt good—warm. Not warm like the fire, heating him from the inside. “It’s not...it’s not like a regular dream, where you control things or know it’s a dream, it’s like...it feels real.”

It _is_ real, he wants to add, but doesn’t dare.  
  
Izzy frowned. “That’s why you had the lucid dream books? And dreamwalking?”  
  
Alec nodded. “To see if there was any...technique to separate yourself from the dream. To control it, or at least know you’re in it.”   
  
“Then you need an anchor,” Izzy said, as if it were the most simple thing in the world. To his skeptical expression, she explained, mouth still very full of chow mein, “It’s an old Seelie meditation trick, back from when they could transcend the universes without magic. They needed something to hold them to their own world, something to remind them. So they could dive as deeply as they wanted but had a reminder: don’t forget to hold a little bit of yourself back.”  
  
“Right,” said Alec. “I’ll get right on that.”  
  
Izzy squinted at him. “Don’t make fun. Meliorn sounded very romantic explaining all of this to me. You’re just not having the full...experience.” She gave him a dazzling smile. “I can call him up—I’m sure he’d be more than happy to add siblings to his list of accomplishments.”  
  
Alec cracked a smile. “I’ll take your word for it that it’s more convincing if you have a hot Seelie explaining it to you.” What he didn’t say: he already had an anchor. It was just a trick of fate that his anchor was already submerged at the bottom of the sea, right along with him.  
  
  _Jace_ , he whispered through their bond, superstitious. _Jace, I need you._  
  
  
  
  
  
The sun blazed overhead, searing the bone-dry vineyard air with radiant heat. Fat bumblebees buzzed lazily overhead, a miniature devotional drone. The harsh wool of his uundertunic chafed at his sweaty skin, like pinpricks. With effort, he ignored the impulse to scratch at the back of his neck. Brother Josaiah was tending to the grapevines, his touch gentle, coaxing the little buds with the pads of his fingers. His grey woolen robes were wet with dirt where he’d knelt to tend to his cherished vine; he spoke to them lowly in French with soft encouragements.  
  
Some might consider the excessive use of words against the Benedictine Rule, but Antoine saw them for what they were: worship. The Lord was immanent in His Creation, was He not? Antoine had never seen anyone who could make things grow like Brother Josaiah—he brought out the Lord’s power in his beloved plants. The entire garden was Josaiah’s devotional, he humbled himself kneeling in the dirt, untangling the grapevines, reaping and sowing the barley, thanked the Lord for their bounty.  
  
Antoine had no such gift. He’d been sent from the family home in Longueval to the Order of Tiron, the third, landless son. An outcast, unwanted, a spilled skin of wine. Rumors and blasphemous words following him even here into the Lord’s house. Still, his adjustment to monastic life had been a fitful one—Antoine had not been cut from the Benedictine cloth. Even the name, _Brother Abdiel_ , felt foreign and clumsy on his tongue after over three years. For men who called each other ‘brother’ there was little brotherly love lost between the residents of the Tiron Abbey.   
  
But all that had changed when he’d met Brother Josaiah— _Jean_. Antoine rolled the syllable around on the tip of his tongue as if tasting an aged wine, savoring the forbidden flavor. There had been something immediate between them, as if Brother Josaiah were one of his own brothers. Looking into his eyes, sharing that steady gaze, and feeling that finally, after many, many long nights of illuminating by candlelight, that he’d found his home in Tiron Abbey.  
  
The Abbot hadn’t approved of Josaiah’s favoritism of Antoine, but perhaps Antoine’s father’s donation of a small parcel of land had greased the Abbot’s good mercies enough for him to show clemency. Josaiah was the one to show him, with patient hands and words so gentle Antoine could have been one of his grapevines, how to do the work of the scribe, the labor of the land—the duties of a monk. And Antoine had tried, not for the Abbot, not for his father, not—he trembled even to think it—not for God. Antoine tried for Josaiah, to be something worth justifying the man’s unswerving faith.  
  
 _Antoine_ , he’d whispered, into the darkness of their shared dormitory. He’d always hated the coarse hair tunic worn by the Benedictines even in sleep, and Antoine was quite sure the Lord had personally witnessed all of his sleepless nights alone on the cold stone Abbey floors. _Je suis Antoine de Longueval_.  
  
He hadn’t expected a reply—not really. Brothers were sworn to silence about their past—any chatter was a craven indulgence. Josiah was pious, in his own way. Where others saw indulgence in Josaiah’s tanned skin, dark and smooth like crushed olives, Antoine saw devotion to the Lord. While others looked down on the roughness of his strong hands, Antoine saw their dexterity with the pen, the beautiful swirls of gold and red Josaiah wrought on the page. When Josiah read aloud from Samuel, Antoine’s mind roamed along the plains of his words, following David and Jonathan’s victory against the Philistines, freed on the winds of the past and Josaiah’s voice. He thrilled at the description of their love, repeating the words over and over to himself in his mind as he worked in the flickering candlelight, _Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul._ And at David’s lament of Jonathan’s death Antoine restrained tears, holding them in close, his secret grief.  
  
 _“And in their death they were not parted; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions .... I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan: your love to me was more wonderful than the love of women. How have the mighty fallen and the weapons of war perished!”_  
  
Josaiah’s voice, frail as a newborn bird, had sounded back in the dormitory darkness, with words worth more than their immaterial weight in gold. _Jean. Jean de Lyon._   
  
_Jean_. Antoine’s own David, his Jonathan. A heroic vision of mismatched eyes, wreathed in laurels of gold.

Antoine blinked, as if startled by his own thoughts. Josaiah—Jean’s—eyes were brown.  
  
Josaiah hit Antoine’s shin with a gardening tool, not entirely gently, and Antoine gave a strangled cry. Even through the thick grey of their robes, his leg still smarted sharply. Swallowing his indignance, Antoine knelt in the dirt, accepting the tool.  
  
“ _Ut in omnibus glorificetur Deus_ ,” Josaiah said, though there was a smile curling the corners of his lips. _That in all things God may be glorified_. The call for all Benedictine monks to perform manual labor. Privately, Antoine suspected that Saint Benedict may have left the hard labor to others.  
  
“Chapter 70,” Antoine muttered back. Chapter 70 of the Benedictine Rule forbade any monk from striking another. Antoine could attest to the fact that this rule was not followed with rigorous standards of monastic piety.  
  
“ _Stabilitate sua et conversatione morum suorum et oboedientia_ ,” was the stern-lipped reply, though Antoine could see the bitten-back smile in it. _Stability, conversion of life, and obedience_. The Benedictine vow. The words that had passed Antoine’s own lips after a harrowing 12 months of asceticism. Even for the son of a lord, some humiliations were not forfeit. It was a joke, and Antoine smiled, for what felt like the first time in his life. Just speaking without necessity—this was their own personal blasphemy.   
  
Josaiah looked up, eyes a deep, rich brown, brown like the dirt from which he raised his crops, the dirt from which the Lord had raised them all. Antoine stared into them, saw himself through them, transfixed. A fleck of sunlight caught his eyes and for a moment they were gold. An echo reverberated in his memory, dark eyes, red lips, a familiar voice, the taste of chicken. Antoine's mouth watered. He hadn't partaken in the flesh of animals in many years. _Don’t forget to take a little bit of yourself with you...._  
  
“Is there something wrong?” Josaiah—Jean, Jonathan—asked, concern evident in his widened eyes. There was something wrong, wrong with the scene, with the words, with this—they were speaking English, not French or Latin. Of course they were speaking English. Why would they speak anything else?  
  
“Who are you?” Antoine asked, in a voice that was not his own.  
  
Josaiah’s hand touched his and Antoine shuddered. The scene dripped and stretched, reacting to his touch, the vines writhing up into dark stone columns, blocking out the blazing light, cloaking them in moonlight. A chill ran up Antoine’s spine at the sudden cold; he drew his habit more tightly around him. He’d been waiting for hours, trying not to let his teeth chatter. It was past the time for sleep and it was strictly forbidden to be up an about the Abbey at these hours, but it had been days since he’d seen Josaiah and desperation had driven him to dangerous measures. A thousand thoughts flitted through his mind, like startled birds. _Je suis très, très désolé—it won’t happen again—I never meant—I love you._  
  
He waited. He waited until his teeth chattered and his fingers and toes went numb, but he stood there shivering in quiet misery, waiting. Peering into the darkness for any sign of Josaiah, breathing pleaded apologies and promises onto the empty air, watching them steal away like the frost on his breath.   
  
At last, there he was. Stealing through the halls like a spectre. For a moment Antoine feared he truly was a ghost, a figment of his own imagination invented to while away lonely hours. But then he was near and the heat of his breath touched Antoine’s cheek and he knew: no phantom of the mind could imitate Josaiah’s gentle touch.  
  
“Jean,” he breathed, and all the words he’d crammed into his mind like pages into his pockets seemed to dematerialize. “Jean—it’s you.”  
  
“It is,” said Jean, and Antoine was startled to notice he looked older. As if time itself had been weighed out on his face, in every groove and aspect of his being. It had been years—had he been waiting that long? It was impossible. “Antoine, I fear I bring heavy tidings.”  
  
Antoine said nothing, could say nothing, his jaw frozen shut. Instead, he roved Jean’s face desperately with his eyes, committing every stray detail to memory. Like the portrait artist who had come to paint their patron lord in his pious citadel. Waited.  
  
“I have decided to take the vow of silence,” Jean said. As if he were teaching Antoine how to prune one of his grapevines. Cut here, so the soil can breathe. Let there be light.  
  
The bottom dropped out of Antoine’s heart, the last two words stretching like a corridor of eternity between them. The vow—it was incomprehensible. Saint Benedict did not require such at thing, it was a rarity, all but unheard of. Only for the ascetics who fled the outside world, locking themselves away in their darkened huts—not for Jean, his golden Jean, who faced the sun like one of his plants, smiling broadly as he let the rays kiss his skin. One of those insane men who sought out God in prison walls, not his Jean, not—  
  
“No,” said Antoine. All the whispered conversations in the dark, forbidden, threatened to choke him. The heat of Jean’s body through their pressed habits, the abbey floors suddenly a softer bed than any feathers. Shared glances in times together, like silent signs at meals when readings took place. “No, no, our _covenant_ —“  
  
“Je suis très, très désolé...” His own words thrown back at him.  
  
 _If aught but death part thee and me_  
  
The candlesticks melted, dripping to puddles of wax and tallow, the halls stretching and swirling back into their incipient grapevines, retreating back into the hollows of the earth. Darkness yawned before him and Antoine’s nostrils filled with the thick, cloying smell of cold chow mein chicken—  
  
  
  
  
Alec jerked awake, a tangle of sheets and sweaty limbs. His heart was racing a staccato beat against his ribcage, the rush of blood dizzying. He was in bed, but still wearing his clothes, the same clothes he’d been wearing for the past two days. Disoriented, dizzy, he reached for his anchor, Jace’s well-worn copy of the Codex, the leather of the cover softened with time and use. _Don’t forget to hold a little bit of yourself back._  
  
“Looking for this?”  
  
Alec turned in disbelief. Jace was sitting at his bedside, perched on his desk, holding the box of takeout. It creaked in his grip as he all but shoveled moo shu into his mouth. In the lamplight, he looked perfect, like an imitation, golden all the way down to the lashes. His boots hung a foot off the floor, his shoulders hunched over his meal. “You would not even believe how hungry the Silent City makes you. Like, it’s depressing as hell, but do you ever just want to _eat_.” He swallowed another huge bite and made an appreciative noise. “You know, this isn’t half bad, even cold. Where did you get it?”  
  
“Jace,” said Alec, reverently, as if giving name to the image would make it disappear. “Jace, is that you? Why are you here?”  
  
“I thought that was obvious,” Jace said, though some of his gusto had leeched away to something paler. A smile with an edge. “I’m fixed. The Silent Brothers—they did it.”  
  
“That’s—“ Alec stumbled over the words. “That’s amazing. Jace...I’m so glad.”  
  
It was impossible. He hadn’t understood many of the words Izzy had thrown at him (in fact, they mostly seemed to be collections of random letters—CBT? ACT? Something about a couch?), but he had gotten the general idea: it wasn’t a magical thing, snap your fingers and you’re cured. It took work, commitment, and above all, time. The Silent Brothers might be mysterious and powerful, but they were not miracle workers.  
  
(“You’ll have to see Clary for that,” Izzy had deadpanned. Alec had made a face back. “Too soon.”)  
  
“Isn’t it?” Jace slipped off the desk, abandoning the takeout. He walked towards him and Alec wasn’t sure whether to approach or step back. Behind him, the chopsticks seemed to be made of something shining like ivory, like bone. “There’s just one thing, Alec.”   
  
Alec’s throat was dry—he needed water. There was something unfamiliar in Jace’s eyes, darker, somehow. They matched. Why did they match? “What—what is it?”  
  
“I’m going to become a Silent Brother,” said Jace, his voice quiet as the time he’d told Alec Valentine was his father. Deadly, serious. “It’s—it’s the only way, Alec.”  
  
Alec’s reflexive _what_ stuck in his throat; he managed a shaky exhale. He could feel every blink of his eyes, the pulse of his own blood, the crackling sounds of his own swallowing. _Wrongness_ throbbed in his veins, threatening to suffocate him. “No,” he said, for the second time. “No, Jace, no—“  
  
He reached out to grab him, hold him, hold him down if he had to, but his arms were weighed down by Antoine’s grey habit, heavy as lead. Bees from the vineyard buzzed in Alec’s ears, harsh and oppressive as the sun’s searing heat. Whip-like grapevines wrapped and crawled around his ankles, binding him to Jace’s, the wooden floors running red with spilt wine. Jace’s habit was a down of feathers, mottled and brown, run through with stripes—an owl’s.  
  
“Alec,” Jace’s voice pleaded, raw and afraid. His voice as he’d begged Alec to free him from Lilith’s control. Red ceremonial ties wove through his lips, piercing his flesh, binding his vow; his eyes were wide and alight with horror, face red and twisted with pain. _Alec, please, you have to kill me. If you don’t, she’ll make me do so much worse, Alec, please—_

  
  
  
  
Jace’s shoulder connected painfully with the floor, the rest of him landing hard a split-second later, jarred back to reality. A dull ache resounded in his skull but he could hardly feel it, rubbing numb fingers over his lips. They were smooth, if a bit chapped, but intact. He relaxed against the floor with a full-body sigh, somewhere between confusion and relief. The stones were freezing but familiar somehow, even if the Brothers had made some kind of effort to make it more comfortable for him. As much as he appreciated their attempt, it hadn’t worked.  
  
 _We don’t feel cold,_ Zachariah had told him when he’d first arrived, in that amused yet confidential way of his. As if he were winking without moving a muscle. _Not the way you do, at any rate._ _Forgive us if we aren’t the most welcoming hosts._   
  
“Has it occurred to you to hire an interior decorator? Jace had asked, after avoiding one question too many. “Seriously, you gotta fire the last one. Skulls-as-wall-décor is so yesterday. Take it from me—I used to have one. _Suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,_ and all that.”  
  
Jace yawned, scrubbing at his face, as if rubbing the residual memories away. He wasn’t sure when he’d made the transition from “reliving killing his grandmother” to “weird takeout body horror,” but he supposed that could be progress, or whatever. He needed to shave, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to ask where they kept the mirror. With the exception of Zachariah, who was for some reason the model-faced version of his less...facially fortunate colleagues, it felt like kicking the Brothers while they were down to even ask.  
  
 _Down the hall, to the left._  
  
“Holy—“ Jace broke off what was probably going to be a pretty blasphemous utterance. He wasn’t sure how the Brothers felt about those kinds of things, but it seemed best to avoid it. He settled for a somewhat hoarse, “When did you get here?”  
  
 _Sometime around you falling out of bed. I wanted to make sure you were not hurt._ Despite the solemn Silent Brother-ness of the words, Zachariah sure had a way of making Jace feel like he was secretly smiling at him. It was...comforting, after a fashion. That there was something human in the mummified corpse.  
  
 _Please, Jace. I’m hardly mummified yet._  
  
“You...heard that?” Jace wasn’t sure what to make of it—be embarrassed, annoyed at the intrusion, or neither. It wasn’t like Silent Brothers had much of a choice, if thinking was the same thing as saying it out loud. Jace was suddenly very glad this was not an ability representative of the general population.  
  
Zacharaiah took on a dry affectation. _Believe me, it wasn’t that hard. You were quite loud._  
  
Jace managed a pretty impressive eyebrow waggle for someone who was currently lying in a pool of their own sweat on an absolutely freezing stone floor. He was, after all, a man of many talents. “Not usually the context I get told that, but I’ll take it.”  
  
Zachariah gave him a look that suggested he was, in some sense, amused, but not about to rise to the bait any time soon. _I hope you do not mind I monitored the contents of some of your dream, as we agreed,_ he said, gracefully shifting tack around Jace’s inanity. It was a honed skill of all who had known him for more than a few days. _I admit, it was not as expected. I brought this for you in hopes it might provide answers, if only the beginnings of the ones you seek._   
  
Zachariah lifted his hands and a heavy, familiar-looking leather-bound tome appeared. Jace felt the strangest prickle of annoyance, not at Zachariah but the book itself, like a hangover effect from the dream. He stood up with effort, pushing his aching body to stand (when _had_ he gotten a decent night’s sleep?), accepting the volume. It was heavier than expected—a lot heavier—and streaked with dust in a way that belied its age.  
  
 _Open it._   
  
Unsure of what to expect, Jace flipped open the cover, opening the book carefully to the inscription page. He skimmed the Latin introducing the volume as an illumination of one of the Christian Scriptures, noting the archaic language. Clearly a mundane text, if the introduction was anything to go by. Dimly, something from Hodge’s obsession with dating manuscripts came back to him—late 10th century, maybe? The illuminations were beautiful—even in their age, still rich in the bold reds and golds and the crisp black lines of the lettering. He admired the work for a moment, until his eye caught at the bottom of the page where the final signatures lay.   
  
_Ut in omnibus glorificetur Deus,_ the personal dedication ran. Below that, in one neat hand it read the author’s name, _Jean de Lyon_. In a second, more cramped hand it had been added, _completed by Antoine de Longueval._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple disclaimer notes: I wasn't able to fully track down naming conventions of Tironesian Monks, nor did I really make an effort to ensure the translations of the quotations about David and Jonathan from Samuel were dated to the 11th century, so please forgive any inaccuracies.


	8. Los Niños Soldados (The Battle of Chapultepec, 1847)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They _wouldn’t_ surrender. There was no _honor_ in that, and if they had to die, they’d do that together, too.

Jace was _frustrated_.

When he’d made the decision to come to the Silent Brothers for help, he’d expected _more_ in the way of actual answers. - answers that would _help_ him move forward with his life. Instead, it felt like all he’d actually gotten in return were cryptic riddles and a constant borderline-uneasiness that came from _knowing_ the Brothers had constant access to his every thought, secret, and _dream_. 

_If one could even call them that_ , Jace thought, eyebrows furrowed together, more confused than he’d already been. Blindly, he traced the signatures on the page in front of him, having already memorized every dip and line and curve of the letters after staring at them for so long, trying to find an explanation in the perfectly preserved text that no one else seemed willing to offer.

_Though he was sure they had them_.

Even if he could see, and sometimes _understand_ , the benefits of figuring it out on his _own_ \- like he’d been encouraged to do - hadn’t he been through _enough_? 

_You have_.

The words echoed in Jace’s head and he tried to mask the way he’d flinched at the sound of it in a lopsided shrug, his gaze flickering to where Brother Zachariah had suddenly appeared. It was something he should have gotten used to by now, the way the Brothers snuck up on him without warning, without a _sound_ , but it still left him feeling unsettled every time they were suddenly _there_ , imparting their wisdom as vaguely as was possible before disappearing all over again. 

Even though Brother Zachariah remained as expressionless as always, there was something about him, something that Jace couldn’t quite put his finger on, that always seemed just a little amused at the thoughts aimed in his direction. This time was no different, and Jace let out an exasperated sigh before reaching up to rub roughly at his face. 

“They’re _real_?” He asked tiredly, one eyebrow raised in question as he tapped absently at the signatures on the page. It was a question he was _almost_ certain he already knew the answer to, an answer that was all but staring him in the face, but he needed confirmation, needed to hear it from someone else, before he could even _begin_ to accept it. 

_They were_.

Jace nodded, the gesture one of both acknowledgment and acceptance, even if _knowing_ brought him no closer to _understanding_. And wasn’t that the real problem? “They- they’re,” he paused, unsure of what question it was he wanted to ask when there were so many fighting for his attention, a frustrated sigh slipping out with the inability to articulate his thoughts. 

_Yes_.

The response shouldn’t have come as a surprise, not when the one answering him could read his thoughts as easily as if they were written out in the air between them, but Jace still reeled back at the shock of it, eyes flickering all over the impassive face of the Silent Brother who stood before him. Jace didn’t know what it was he was looking for, wasn’t sure he’d recognize it if he found it, but it was all he _could_ do as he tried to process this new information. 

What little of it was readily offered, anyway. Because, even though he hadn’t actually put a voice to the most prevalent question he’d had - hadn’t _asked_ if the figures in the last dream, and every dream before it, had been him and Alec - he _knew_ that was the question Brother Zachariah had _answered_. After all, hadn’t he already suspected as much anyway? 

The confirmation of his suspicions did little to alleviate the headache that had been brewing since he’d woken up from the last dream, had seen the names inscribed on the page of the heavy book, and had stared at them for what felt like a full twenty-four hours. Without consciously having decided to do so, Jace reached down and pressed a hand against his side, seeking comfort from the other half of his soul. It was a gesture that Brother Zachariah didn’t miss, and while Jace would have felt self-conscious about it at any other time, with any other person, he couldn’t find it in himself to _care_ ; could do nothing _but_ glance away at the knowing look aimed in his direction. 

He wanted to ask what this all meant - for him, for Alec, for _their_ future - but he’d learned enough to know a straight answer wouldn’t be given. 

Not then. Maybe never.

There was understanding in the way Brother Zachariah regarded him, though, a gentle nod accompanying the observation. _As I’ve said before_ , he began, the words floating across Jace’s mind as gently as possible. _You are never alone. You will always have a place at his side_.

There was a certain inflection to the way he’d said _always_ that caused Jace to inhale sharply, mouth opening as if to probe _further_ , only to snap closed at the realization that his company had departed just as quickly and quietly as he’d first entered the room. It was probably for the best, Jace thought to himself as he closed the heavy book with a _thud_ that reverberated throughout the space he occupied, setting it on the nightstand with as much care as the age of it required, before laying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling above him.

* * *

The news of the advancing American forces had reached Chapultepec with barely any time to _prepare_ , and Jonatán knew that he should have felt scared. After all, at only thirteen years old, not only was he the youngest soldier at the academy, he was also their most recent recruit. It had been only _five days_ since he’d been accepted, less than that since he’d actually started training, and his hold on the short sword that he’d been practicing with was clumsy _at best_. All the chaos _around him_ should have been _enough_ to send his heart racing, fear and adrenaline pulsing through him with every trip-hammer beat of his racing heart, but none of that _mattered_ as he tripped over another fallen comrade, heedlessly, his mind only half on the battle going on around him as he searched _helplessly_ for his-

_For Alejandro_.

When Jonatán had arrived barely a week ago, and had seen the older boy for the first time in what _felt like_ an eternity, something deep inside him had finally _unclenched_ , allowed him to breathe _properly_ again. Their reunion later, on the roof of the castle long after they were supposed to have been asleep, Jonatán’s smaller frame fitting snugly beneath Alejandro’s chin as they embraced, set the world to rights again. 

Or at least _his_ world, but that had all changed the instant the battle had begun raging around them. 

They’d been told to stand down, to _surrender_ , before the American troops had arrived, but they’d disobeyed those orders instead, refusing to die without putting up a good _fight_. 

_Orgullo_ is what his abuela would’ve called it, unimpressed by the desperate acts it drove men toward. But wasn’t that part of what had gotten them here in the first place, embroiled in a war that they’d need a miracle to win? 

_Orgullo viene antes de la caída_ , Jonatán thought absently to himself, the voice in his head sounding suspiciously like the woman who’d uttered those exact words countless times throughout his life, as he approached another fallen comrade on the castle steps. He cursed as his foot slid out from beneath him, stones slick with blood, just barely managing to remain upright. The young boy grabbed at his chest, feeling his heart hammering away as he whispered a _súplica_ to every Saint he could think of as he moved. It wasn’t for himself, or even for the country he loved so dearly that giving up his life for it seemed a worthy sacrifice, but for the other boy instead. 

His closest friend. 

The only person he _loved_ outside of his family. 

The very reason he’d been impatient to come here, too, even if it meant he’d never return home. _Especially then_ , in fact, because being with Alejandro - even if they were to _die_ \- was _worth_ it. 

Was worth _everything_.

Before he could find the older boy, though, Jonatán was pulled into a fight, sword slashing out violently. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in bravado, raw power, and whether it was luck or an answered prayer, he eventually found himself standing over a lifeless body.

It was the first time Jonatán had killed someone, and he felt himself falter beneath the brutality of it all. His hand shook at his side, the blood-soaked blade falling to the ground at his feet before he took off again, just barely dodging another attack when he _finally_ spotted Alejandro up ahead.

Relief was probably the absolute _last_ thing he should have been feeling, but it flooded through him nonetheless as he drew nearer, the tips of his fingers catching on the other boys wrist once Jonatán was within reaching distance. Their gazes met above the chaos going on around them and, for a moment, everything else ceased to exist. 

It was just the two of them, as it had been when they were younger; when their lives had been as much their own as it could be for anyone of their age. They were barely older than children, after all, and already their entire existence was ruled by bloodshed and violence. Jonatán could see the same fear he felt reflected in Alejandro’s eyes and he longed to say something, _anything_ that could be of comfort, but he wasn’t going to _lie_. 

“ _Sígueme_ ,” Jonatán said instead, his tone leaving no room for argument, and he waited until Alejandro had pressed a spare dagger into his palm with a nod before turning to assess the situation. He could see no one he recognized, and that realization made the fear that had been lingering just beneath his skin flare up again, his entire body moving on instinct to shield his friend from whatever was to come. It was the lingering touch at the small of his back that steadied Jonatán, made him chance a quick peek at Alejandro, a look passing between them that said more than words ever could, before they were moving again. 

There was a synchronicity to their movements, an ease with which they oriented themselves around each other, that came from more than just five days of training. And, by the time they’d made it to the other side of the courtyard, sweat and blood covering nearly every part of them, an elated grin had spread across both their faces. Neither boy was disillusioned enough to believe they’d survive, not with odds like theirs, but they were _together_ , and that was enough.

For now. 

It was Alejandro who looked up first, eyes catching the Mexican flag waving in the breeze on the castles roof, and when Jonatán followed his line of sight, all he could do was nod at the unspoken suggestion. It was one of the first things they’d learned - _get to higher ground_ \- and the fact that it already felt like _their_ spot, here, was only further proof that that was where they should be.

“¡Ale, _ir_!” He urged, pushing Alejandro toward the castle's entrance. “¡ _Apresurar_!”

He could see the argument forming in his friends mind before he’d even opened his mouth, and all Jonatán could do was shake his head, cutting him off before he could argue. 

“¡ _Estaré justo detrás tuyo_!”

Jonatán waited, watching as Alejandro clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in irritation. They could both be stubborn, often to a fault, but Jonatán _wasn’t_ going to back down, and he recognized the moment that Alejandro recognized and accepted this, his expression shifting to one of concern as he reached over, giving a reluctant nod as he gave the younger boys hand a squeeze. 

“ _Cuidate_ ,” he implored, holding Jonatán’s gaze for a long moment. There was so much more he _wanted_ to say, wanted to make sure his friend _knew_ , but he knew there was no time for that and his chest ached at the thought as he finally stepped away.

Jonatán didn’t move, couldn’t even take his eyes off of Alejandro, until his friend had disappeared into the castle. There was a burst of momentary relief as he turned away, feeling his eyes sting from not only the blood and sweat dripping down his face, but also the tears that he tried desperately to blink away as he surveyed his surroundings. 

There wasn’t much left to see. No one he knew remained standing, and Jonatán took a moment to mourn the loss of his friends, reciting the prayers that he’d been learning since he was much younger than the thirteen year old who was now standing on a battlefield, amidst countless bodies - both allies and enemies alike.

Then, all at once, he straightened up, grip on the dagger tightening as he started backing up, following the same path Alejandro had taken only moments ago. His fear had given way to stark determination. Nothing so foolhardy as trying to fight his way out - trading his own life if it meant keeping his friend safe - but more of an acceptance of his fate. 

Of _their_ fate.

Jonatán broke into a run once he’d slipped inside, navigating the stone corridors as best as he could with only his vague recollections of the castles layout to guide him. By the time he’d made it to the roof, he was nearly out of breath, eyes wild as he searched for Alejandro amongst the towers, only calming just enough to catch a second wind once he spotted him on the east side of the building. 

Running to him was pure instinct, their weapons clattering at their feet as Jonatán all but flung himself at his friend. His hold was tight, _bruising_ , but Alejandro returned it in kind. They both knew that it wouldn’t be long until they were found. The American soldiers would surely search the castle and the grounds until none of them remained, and as they drew back just far enough to _look_ at each other, it felt like a silent understanding had passed between them. 

They _wouldn’t_ surrender. There was no _honor_ in that, and if they had to die, they’d do that together, too. 

With a shaky smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Jonatán drew Alejandro close again, basking in the comfort that was both given and received freely. When they finally separated, Jonatán moved away for a moment, removing the flag from where it had proudly waved for as long as the Academy had stood. He wrapped it around his shoulders, held it in place with one hand as he moved to stand beside Alejandro - teetering on the edge of the roof hand-in-hand.

* * *

Alec jerked awake suddenly, the sensation of falling so intense that his breaths were coming in short and heavy pants. One hand had moved to his bare flank, palm covering the rune - _their_ rune - while the other settled atop his chest. He relaxed at the irregular thudding that seemed to vibrate through him, counted the seconds between each beat until it had slowed back to a normal rhythm. 

They’d _died_. 

Only _children_ , and already hardened by a war that hadn’t been theirs to fight. There’d been no hesitation in their sacrifice, no second-guessing as they’d clasped hands, fingers twined tightly together, before jumping from the roof top they’d claimed as their own. 

Through the sleepy haze that had only barely begun to lift, Alec could still _taste_ the fear on the tip of his tongue, feel the way his stomach had dropped as the world had shifted around them. He found himself reaching for the bedside table, turning the lamp on before grabbing the pen and journal he’d taken to leaving there when he’d first started keeping a record of his dreams. He wanted - _needed_ \- to write down as much as he could remember, before it slipped away forever, and he did so as quickly as possible, the scratching of pen on paper the only sound in his otherwise quiet room. 

It was difficult to _focus_ when he could feel Jace’s confusion, _distress_ , from the other side of their bond, and Alec paused as a wave of emotions washed over him. The grip he had on the pen tightened, briefly, his entire body freezing up at the onslaught of it before he could gain control again. His eyes fell closed once he did, pausing to take a deliberate breath - _breathe in, breathe out_ \- even as he pressed his palm back against the mark that connected him and Jace. 

_That made them one_.

_I’m here_ , it said. _Right here_.

Alec waited, blew out a breath of air as the myriad of feelings receded slowly, leaving something that was _almost_ relief - or as close to it as Jace had ever gotten, anyway - in its wake. There was a warmth spreading through him instead, radiating from their rune outward, and Alec sighed softly, palm still resting against his side as if it were the only thing anchoring him. 

And it was, in a way - had been since Jace had gone to the City of Bones to seek help from the Silent Brothers.

He _missed_ his Parabatai with an intensity that was only tempered by how _busy_ running the Institute kept him, and though he knew it was for _good_ reason, the physical distance has become _too much_. With each passing dream, that feeling had only continued to _grow_ , and Alec felt like he had finally reached his breaking point. 

The overwhelming need to _see_ Jace, to make sure that he was _okay_ \- getting _better_ \- threatened to consume Alec, and with a final glance at the words he’d scribbled in the journal, he tossed it aside. It didn’t matter that the sky outside was still dark, or that he’d been staying away for a _reason_ , Alec was single-mindedly focused on one thing. 

_Jace_. 

There was no better motivation than _that_ , and Alec wasted no time in getting out of bed and getting ready for the day ahead. In the back of his mind, he was aware that any number of things could prevent him from seeing Jace. Izzy, for one, had been more watchful than usual since he’d confided in her - somehow always _there_ in the times he least wanted to be scrutinized. It was early enough, though, that he was relatively confident he’d make it out of the Institute undetected if he was careful. There was also the chance that the Brothers would turn him away, with nothing but Jace’s best interests in mind, and there would be little that Alec could _do_ to convince them otherwise. 

But he still had to _try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based partially on Mexican history (The Battle of Chapultepec and the Mexican military cadets who fought to their death instead of falling back like they'd been ordered to) and partially on Mexican folklore (the story of the only two cadets whose bodies were found side-by-side on the east hill of the castle grounds, after at least one of them is said to have jumped to his death from the castle's roof, with the Mexican flag wrapped around his shoulders). 
> 
> Spanish translations:
> 
> Los Niños Soldados: The Boy Soldiers  
> Orgullo: Pride  
> Abuela: Grandma  
> Orgullo viene antes de la caída: Pride comes before a fall  
> Súplica: Prayer, appeal, plea  
> Sígueme: Follow me  
> ¡Ale, ir!: Ale(jandro), go!  
> ¡Apresura!: Hurry!  
> ¡Estaré justo detrás tuyo!: I'll be right behind you!  
> Cuidate: Be safe


	9. Takatāpui (Aotearoa/New Zealand, pre-Contact)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takatāpui is a traditional Māori term meaning ‘intimate companion of the same sex.’ ([Source](https://takatapui.nz/))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This flashback is based on the famous Māori love story of Hinemoa and Tutanekai. I mean no disrespect to Māoritanga (Māori culture) and Tangata whenua (the Māori people). Names have great meaning, so hopefully the ones I chose (Kahu = hawk and Manaaki = to protect, to care for) are appropriate as personal names. Overall I hope the Māori words I used make sense in the context, as I found it hard to do without.
> 
> See end note for more information on my twist on this originally straight story as well as sources.

Alec’s attempt to sneak out of the Institute was hindered by Lindsay, the Shadowhunter on duty, who caught sight of him and waylaid him with a question about some anomalies in the scans. Sighing, Alec put on his professional facade and let her show him the problem, all the while fighting the urge to drop everything and _run_ to his parabatai.

By the time they’d figured out that it had been nothing but a technical glitch, Alec had to choose between visiting the City of Bones and breakfast. No matter how hungry he was, the choice was simple: He quickly activated his _Nourishment_ rune and told Lindsay to inform Izzy about his absence for the next couple of hours. Then he was out of the door and making his way as quickly as he could towards the center of his attention.

 _Jace_. Just thinking his parabatai’s name seemed enough to make their bond snap into sharp focus. Absentmindedly Alec rested his palm against his side, as had become almost second nature ever since Jace left and the dreams began. He was almost sure that it was the same for his parabatai, and soon he could reassure himself in person, could see Jace, touch him, see in his eyes that they were together in this, whatever _this_ was.

Alec realized he was smiling stupidly up at the forbidding entrance to the City of Bones and quickly reigned in his unruly thoughts, blushing over his lack of control. Taking a few steadying breaths, he steeled his mind, not wanting the Silent Brothers to notice more of his preoccupation than was necessary. As valuable as the Order was to Shadowhunter society, as much as Alec was convinced that they could help Jace, he was always uncomfortable around them, knowing that they could read his thoughts, his emotions.

Still, there was no avoiding it, so he squared his shoulders and entered. Activating a witchlight, he made his way down, as always pausing a moment before the statue of the angel carrying the Nephilim motto. The motto Jace and he had adopted and which so far has proven itself to be true – their path hadn't been easy, yet nothing seemed to be able to break them, not Valentine, not Lilith. Not even death itself, although Alec would never forget the horrible minutes when their bond had stretched until it snapped, leaving Alec in unimaginable agony. The memory was enough to make him shudder, and he clung to the awareness of Jace, warm and wonderfully alive, as he quickly moved on.

By the time he reached the Silent Brother waiting for him, Alec had regained his composure and was able to greet the monk respectfully. He recognized Brother Zachariah, as always wondering why he didn’t share the physical characteristics of his fellows before focusing on the purpose of his visit. “I’ve come to see my parabatai, Jace Herondale. Is he available?”

 _Jonathan Herondale already has a visitor._ The Silent Brother’s answer reverberated in Alec’s head, and he jerked in surprise. Brother Zachariah immediately answered his unspoken question, _He is sharing his breakfast with Clarissa Fairchild._

Clary. Alec bit back a sigh, but doubtlessly the Silent Brother could easily read his disappointment. Still, he did his best to keep his composure. “Alright. In that case I’ll return tomorrow.”

_No need. Your parabatai would like for you to join them._

“Would he now?” Alec asked testily, his every instinct telling him to leave. He had made his peace with Clary, but right now he had no desire to share Jace’s attention. After everything that had been going on, Alec’s sole purpose for this visit had been to see his parabatai, after all. Alone. To make sure how he was doing and to talk about their dreams, their _memories_ , and what it all might mean. “Did you ask him?”

 _Yes._ Much to Alec’s surprise, Brother Zachariah continued out loud, “He says he’s going to kick your ass if you leave now.”

The Silent Brother’s lips actually twitched in a smile, as if he was remembering something fondly, before his features smoothed out again into their usual bland composure. It was enough to make Alec’s decision for him, however, and he relented, “Alright. Show me the way.”

As they made their way through dark corridors, Alec could feel his heart beating faster, and he had to swallow a few times, suddenly dry-mouthed. Telling himself that he was being stupid, that there was nothing to be nervous about seeing his parabatai, didn’t really help, especially when he could feel similar tension radiating through the bond.

Then Brother Zachariah was gesturing towards an open door, and all of Alec’s apprehension melted away in a flood of relief and happiness when Jace practically threw himself into his arms. They clung to each other, laughing helplessly at a reaction that was completely out of proportion for less than two weeks’ separation. Still, it felt as if they’d lived several lifetimes during that span, and Alec allowed himself the luxury of simply holding Jace for a moment longer.

A pointed cough finally prompted them to separate. Clary was watching them with hooded eyes from the bed in the corner, a cup of coffee in her hands, her expression carefully blank. Alec gave her a nod, reminding himself that he had done nothing to be ashamed of. Neither had Jace, who offered Alec the one chair in the small, bare room before sitting down next to Clary.

“I’m sure you’re dying for a caffeine fix.” Alec wasn’t sure what he’d expected Jace’s first words to be, but the teasing smile helped relax him, and he gratefully accepted the cup Jace offered him. “Here, try mine. The Brothers make surprisingly good coffee for people without mouths.”

It was true, and Alec allowed himself to savor the aroma, all the time aware of Jace’s eyes on him. They only moved away from him when Clary said meaningfully, “Jace was telling me that he’s making good progress. I’m glad you convinced him to do this.”

She sounded thoughtful, almost sad, which confused Alec. Most of his attention was still on Jace, however, who was fiddling with the ring around his neck. Stretching his leg so he could nudge his parabatai's foot, Alec inquired, “So they’re helping you? With your memories, the nightmares and… other things?”

He was not going to mention the _other_ dreams with Clary around, but there was no need. He could tell that Jace knew exactly what he wasn’t saying. “I think so. It’s a lot, you know, but Brother Zachariah’s been very supportive. He… he doesn’t judge. And it’s not all bad, at night.”

Their eyes caught and held, and Alec nodded, understanding that Jace’s careful words applied to both his trauma and their strange shared dreams. Dreams which he’d known the Brothers would see in Jace’s mind and which they might easily have condemned them for. As much as Alec had hoped to walk away with answers today, seeing Jace, knowing that he was somewhere safe, would suffice. For now, at least. Letting his relief show, he got up. “I’m glad. But I’m afraid duty calls.”

“Come again soon, parabatai.” Jace looked reluctant to let him go, but relented, although not before pulling Alec into another embrace and adding, “I hope I’ll see you tonight.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper against Alec’s neck, making him shiver involuntarily. Startled, Alec stepped back and managed a nod. Although he still didn’t know what they meant, he had no doubt that there would be more dreams.

***

Sitting down on a big flat rock, Kahu let his feet dangle into the water of Lake Rotorua and took out his flute. Lifting it to his lips, he began to play, imagining the melody taking flight, and in his chest his heart beat faster as he pictured Manaaki looking at the same sunset. Could he hear Kahu’s song all the way from Kahu’s home on the island of Te Motutapu-a-Tinirau?

His entire life, Kahu had worked hard to establish his reputation as one of the bravest warriors of the Te Uri o Uenukukōpako tribe of the Te Arawa people, attempting to make up for the fact that he had been born illegitimately. He had succeeded, becoming well-liked and respected among his people, and he’d thought his old sense of inadequacy long conquered – until he first laid eyes on Manaaki during one of the tribal meetings on the _marae_ , the meeting place on the mainland.

That night, the young people from the different villages were playfully competing with each other, and Kahu admired the girls skillfully twirling burning poi. However, what really drew his attention was the sight of the chief’s firstborn son leading a _haka_ , and he found it hard to look away from the sight of his well-muscled body in the flickering light of the fires as it contorted in the powerful rhythm of the war dance.

Manaaki’s brown skin was adorned with _moko_ , tattoos that told the story of his esteemed lineage, and suddenly Kahu found himself wishing to be of higher birth. It was not normally Kahu’s way not to pursue what he wanted, yet the warmth pooling in his belly whenever he caught sight of Manaaki was always accompanied by a pang of bitterness. Who was he to crave the regard of the ariki’s son and heir?

For a second their eyes met, and a trick of the light turned Manaaki’s dark brown eyes a light, almost green colour. Startled, Kahu quickly glanced away and decided to keep to the edges of the meeting, telling himself he was not hiding. However, at the prompting of some of his friends from the island he did agree to play the flute for them, trying to pretend that his eyes weren’t continually seeking out Manaaki, surrounded as he always was by other young warriors. Usually, there were also more than a few young maidens in his entourage, giving him coy glances, probably hoping to catch his attention, since he was still unmarried.

However, Manaaki never gave any sign of being interested in any of them. Instead, when Kahu turned around the next time, he almost jumped out of his skin when he realized that Manaaki was standing right behind him, a genuine smile on his face. “I heard you play the _kōauau_ – the goddess Raukatauri has blessed you, my friend.”

“It's nothing,” Kahu deflected, hoping his blush wasn’t too visible in the flickering light of the fires all around them. Without meaning to, he met and held Manaaki’s eyes. “I’m glad that it brought you pleasure, though.”

“It did. And I hope to hear you play many more times,” Manaaki stated with a warmth that Kahu could feel spreading from his belly all the way to his toes. And when Manaaki insisted that he join him and his friends, he couldn’t help but follow, ignoring the voice in his head that warned him to keep his distance. One smile from Manaaki, and it was probably already too late for caution anyhow. Kahu had never experienced a pull this strong towards anyone else, almost as if they had met before.

Kahu never asked outright, but there was something in the way Manaaki watched him that made him suspect that he wasn’t alone in feeling this connection. They were inseparable for the rest of the meeting, and Kahu almost forgot about the difference in their stations. Manaaki certainly seemed to have done so, the weight of his eyes soon feeling as familiar as Kahu’s favourite feather cloak.

When the meeting came to a close, Manaaki pulled him aside, and in the shadow of a big kauri tree they kissed, their tongues exchanging promises they couldn’t voice out loud. Kahu’s tribe was about to take their boats back to the island, and they didn’t know when they would see each other again. Gently pressing their noses and foreheads together, they shared their breaths in a _hongi_ both of them were loathe to break.

Finally, Kahu was the one to step away, but not before Manaaki chased after him for one last kiss. “Play the flute for me at night and know that I will think of you.”

“I promise,” Kahu responded without hesitation, his every cell still seeming to tingle with Manaaki’s closeness. Slowly moving around the trunk of the giant redwood that had sheltered them, he kept his eyes on Manaaki’s for as long as he could. Just before they had to break eye-contact, he added in a whisper, “ _Takatāpui_. Beloved friend.”

He wasn’t even sure if Manaaki had heard him, but in his heart, the word fit, and Kahu treasured the warmth it invoked, fanning its flames every time he lifted his _kōauau_ to his lips. It became part of his nightly ritual, and sometimes he imagined that he could almost sense Manaaki listening to him across the water, like an echoed heartbeat next to his own. The sensation only got stronger after each time their paths crossed during subsequent tribal meetings, when they would seek to spend any free moment together, until everyone knew that to find one meant finding the other. It made it easy for Kahu to forgot everything that separated them.

Therefore, when news reached the island that there would be a wedding on the _marae_ , sealing an alliance between Te Arawa and their neighbours, Kahu felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. That his friends looked at him with understanding and pity only made things worse, making it hard to catch his breath even as he pretended that he had expected this to happen. That night, his flute rang out in a song like weeping, and he swore to himself that this would be the last time he indulged in this ritual, no matter how much his soul craved it.

It was no surprise that afterwards he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in the communal sleeping house. Finally he managed to doze off, but it wasn’t long before he sat started awake. He wasn’t sure what had interrupted his restless sleep. It was almost as if someone had touched his chest, and his heart did a strange double beat, making him feel for a moment as if he didn’t have one heart but two.

Without stopping to think, Kahu got up, wrapped himself into his cloak and snuck out of the building, led by the whisper in his blood, in his bones. He made his way to the pool that lay just outside the village fortifications, the moonlight so bright he could see the path easily. Once there, however, he paused in confusion, because there was no one there. The dark water lay silently, no one waiting for him under the surrounding fern trees, and his heart sank.

Sighing, he sat down at the water’s edge. Somewhere nearby, a _kakapo_ erupted into its booming mating sound, and Kahu twisted his mouth wrily, muttering under his breath, “I hope you have better luck than me.”

The flightless parrot fell abruptly silent when something moved in the water, disrupting the calmness of the pool, and Kahu sat bolt-upright, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“I don’t know about the bird, but _your_ song was heard. I hear you every night, _takatāpui_.” Manaaki’s familiar voice curled around Kahu like a caress, even before the other man crossed the pool in a few strokes, as agile as a seal. He looked beautiful, all strength and power, the moonlight making his wet skin glisten, and Kahu barely remembered to offer him his hand and help him out of the water.

“What… what are you doing here?” he asked, his own voice hoarse in his ears, his fingers seemingly unable to let go of Manaaki now that they’d got a hold of him. “I heard of the wedding. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

On the face of it, it was a stupid thing to say, because of course they would have seen each other at tribal functions or if Te Arawa went to war, but they both knew what he meant. Manaaki’s reply came in the form of a crushing embrace, one that Kahu answered in kind, and they clung to each other, Manaaki whispering urgently, “I needed to tell you myself that the marriage is a political one. I always knew it’d be my duty, I just never expected to have someone to lose...”

“You’re not going to lose me.” Giddy with relief, Kahu buried his face against Manaaki’s neck. His skin tasted salty under his lips, making him look up in surprise. “Don’t tell me you swam here!”

It was a long distance from Manaaki’s village to the island, and now that he paid attention, Kahu noticed how clammy Manaaki’s skin was, how he trembled with exhaustion. He'd really crossed the water by himself, in the middle of the night, just so Kahu would know the truth of things. The thought was almost overwhelming, and wriggling out of his grip, Kahu stepped away with a shake of his head. Forestalling Manaaki’s protest, he removed his cloak and bundled the other man up as much as possible.

“Idiot.” He tried to look stern but knew he was failing when Manaaki just grinned in response and hugged him again. Any other admonishments Kahu might have thought of were lost in the heat of Manaaki’s lips against his own, a pleasure Kahu had thought he’d lost forever. Kissing Manaaki felt like nothing Kahu had ever known, like an exploration and coming home, like the heat of battle and the calm of peace.

Finally, Manaaki turned the kiss into a drawn-out _hongi_ , pressing their foreheads together and sharing their breath the way they had before their previous parting. Kahu wasn’t surprised in the least when his words mirrored what Kahu was feeling: “Surely this was meant to be, we were meant to find each other and share our path from now on.”

“But… your wife?” Kahu couldn’t help but ask, even as he buried himself deeper in Manaaki’s embrace.

“As I said, it’s a political alliance. I’ve known her since we were young, she will understand.” Superficially, Manaaki sounded sure of himself, but Kahu felt the tension in him, the sense of urgency. Strong hands came up to cup Kahu’s face, and Kahu shivered under the intensity of Manaaki’s gaze. “ _Ka mate ahau i te aroha ki tōku hoa, ki a Kahu._ I am dying for love of my friend, for my beloved, for Kahu. Please, come live with me, be by my side until the end of our days.”

For a long moment there was nothing but silence, the only sounds the wind in the trees and the thumping of Kahu’s heart. How could such a loud noise belong to one man? Wonderingly, he rested his palm on Manaaki’s broad chest, not surprised in the least when the other man’s heartbeat matched his own. He raised his eyes to Manaaki’s face, finding his own amazed smile mirrored there.

“Of course I will. Where you reside, so will I, where you fight, I will fight. _Takatāpui_. Beloved.”

***

Jace woke with a smile, feeling warm and relaxed. He was getting almost used to the dreams, at least as long as he didn’t think too hard about what they might mean. For now, he could still feel the caress of Manaaki’s smile. Did Alec ever look at him like that?

He quickly suppressed the thought, because that way lay dragons he’d much rather remain sleeping. Especially after his talk with Clary earlier. Their relationship, which had burned so brightly while they were facing constant challenges and dangers, had somehow fizzled and turned awkward once things settled down. Still, he hadn’t expected Clary to officially break up with him once Alec had left.

“I do love you. I know things have been weird, but once I’m back at the Institute...” he had protested, hating the thought that Lilith had taken this from him, too.

He’d meant it, but Clary had only given him a long, considering glance. “I love you, too, but let’s not pretend, Jace. Although we've only known each other for a short while, we’ve been through too much together to lie to each other – or to ourselves. It's better to make a clean cut now.”

What was there left to say after this? She’d seemed sad but determined and had left him struggling with a wealth of confused emotions. What a difference to the clarity he’d felt in every single one of the dreams. What a difference, even, to what he’d felt when Alec had walked through the door this morning.

No doubt, no confusion, just the warmth and security he always found with his parabatai. His frown melting away, Jace slipped his left hand under his t-shirt and rested it against the rune connecting them. He couldn’t be sure, but he was almost certain that across the city, Alec was doing the same.

_Sweet dreams, takatāpui._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short overview of the history of the [Te Arawa tribe](https://teara.govt.nz/en/te-arawa) on the North Island of Aotearoa/New Zealand.
> 
> Hinemoa and Tutanekai’s love story is one of the most famous Māori legends and has been retold many times. ([Source](http://www.teaohou.natlib.govt.nz/journals/teaohou/issue/Mao39TeA/c19.html))
> 
> At first I planned on doing a straight retelling, with Jace’s reincarnation being female. However, much to my surprise I stumbled across criticism of this famous love story (edited, after all, in Victorian times by a _pakeha_ , i.e. non-Māori), mentioning older sources that state that Tutanekai had an “intimate same-sex friend” ( _takatāpui_ ) named Tiki before marrying Hinemoa, and that the three of them possibly even ended up living together. ([Source](https://www.makingqueerhistory.com/articles/2017/10/8/takatpui) \- This is also where I found the Māori sentence Manaaki says. I only switched Tiki's and Kahu’s names.)
> 
> Today, the term _takatāpui_ has been reclaimed for Māori who are, in Western terms, LGBTQ. ([Source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takat%C4%81pui))


	10. Memories of the future (June 12th, 5142)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The last remnants of his most recent dream – _home_ , he thought, _and Jace_ , although he’d been distant and detached and so, so far away that it made Alec’s heart ache - were slowly slipping away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to experiment a little, both with the concept of rebirth and the parabatai bond as an anchor between it all.

In a way, opting for a visit had been the worst thing that Alec could have done if the end goal had been putting an end to his endless worries and questions, he thought as he tossed and turned in his own bed back at the Institute. Everything felt stifling, suddenly; as if the otherwise open space of his room was closing down on him bit by bit every time he thought of everything they’d gone through. It felt like a thousand lifetimes piled on top of one another, stretching and pulling them in all and every direction until he felt just about ready to lose his mind.

Opening his eyes once again in defeat, Alec instead stared resolutely out of his bedroom window. He _had_ to go to sleep. He could still hear Izzy’s words – her concern, even _outsiders’s_ concern, as much as anyone could be an outsider in such a small society as an Institute – and knew that the frequent attempts at lucid dreaming and the overall hyperawareness of everything around him (everything inside his mind) weren’t doing anyone any favours. The past wasn’t supposed to matter; they were all taught that from an early age. History, personal or that of the species, was to be respected, but nothing more. Shadowhunters didn’t really have long enough life spans to be able to afford dwelling into the matters of the heart for too long. Each and every one of them had been forced to learn that lesson eventually.

So why was it so _difficult_?

Perhaps it was just their minds’s way of dealing with the separation. It was a ridiculous hypothesis, but not quite unbelievable enough to be discarded completely. Perhaps all this information – all these memories – that they’d managed to inflict upon themselves suddenly had always been there, just out of reach, and the Silent Brothers’s magic combined with the distance between them and their desperate, if subconscious, efforts to diminish it had awoken something inside them that neither of them knew how to control. He really rather wished he had had longer to talk to Jace, but perhaps tomorrow—

He was getting greedy, Alec knew. His visit had been supposed to be _incidental_ , not a daily routine that the Silent Brothers would have to put up with. A lot of them respected the parabatai bond too much to refuse him, he was sure, but that wasn’t the _point_. Jace had to heal on his own. He had no business messing with affairs that were way outside of his usual expertise. He just had to let them do their job. Time would tell how much exactly that would do and exploiting the favours that the bond could grand him was pushing him ever so slightly out of the comfort zone that making Jace a priority usually shrouded him in.

Doing his best to settle back down under the covers, Alec threw another longing look through the unusually clear sky that he could see out of the window. It was one of Jace’s favourite views in the Institute, too. As children, they’d often spent the hours from dusk ‘till dawn in this very spot, mapping out the constellations that Hodge had made them memorise. Jace would be far happier up here, being able to look up at the things he loved most instead of the humid cell that the Silent Brothers had offered him in exchange for his trust.

Alec pressed a hand to their rune, the habit one that he’d engaged in briefly before – only in the moments when he wanted Jace’s attention for whatever reason – but one that kept growing more and more persistent now, and felt the answering nudge from his parabatai’s direction. The bond had felt much more refined these last few days and he could almost _see_ Jace seeing what he did. He couldn’t share the sensations (not yet), but it was just enough for Alec to finally, finally drift off.

***

Having your body in a state of near shutdown over the course of months wasn’t the most pleasant experience, Alec had to admit, but it had at least saved him the trouble of having to remember just how tight his capsule actually was. He was lucid enough to know better than to try and get up, instead opting for his second best option – taking in his surroundings. The last remnants of his most recent dream – _home_ , he thought, _and Jace_ , although he’d been distant and detached and so, so far away that it made Alec’s heart ache - were slowly slipping away.

He could see the outlines of Aloron XIII out of the corner of his eye already; a blueish shadow against the blinding light of the sun it was revolving around and the backdrop of stars stretching out into the infinity above him. It was nothing like Earth, but it was a wonderful view all the same; enough for him to not entirely mind the fuss that this mission had created. He didn’t even have enough space to stand up and see his temporary new home, Alec thought with a twinge of irritation; how was he supposed to prepare himself for first contact like this?

The sudden, vaguely familiar wheezing in the air around him, soon followed by a flurry of red floating in the tiny pod, was enough to distract him from the many inconveniences of their mission and bring him firmly back into the present. _Their_ mission. He wasn’t alone. He never had been; not in this.

 _Welcome back!_ The buzzing from the small device that had yet to leave him alone  - an AI equipped with just enough knowledge to keep the new settlers composed as they woke up, if he remembered correctly – was close enough now for Alec to have to fight the urge to slap it away from his face. _Your mission – starting point, Planet 1523/25, final destination, Aloron XIII – is nearing its conclusion. Please remain calm as your capsule joins the rest of your crew in the docking area. As per local customs, your primary vessel will remain in orbit until further notice. Temporary confusion, disorientation and/or loss of memory are to be expected and nothing to be afraid of. Details from the personal files of passenger number one to follow._ There was no need, Alec could have assured it if he’d had the voice to do so. He’d been the first to climb aboard, part of the first ten people to be graced with this mission at all. With that in mind, chances were he’d be the last to land, as was traditional for a Captain. Any kind of confusion he was experiencing would have gone away by then. Perfectly unaware of that, the AI barrelled ahead. _Name: Alexander Lightwood. Age: Thirty-three. Homeworld: Earth. Professional history with the New York Institute of—_

“Staff check-up,” Alec croaked out before the robot had had the chance to start rattling off every single thing he had done in his life since reaching legal age. These weren’t exactly the first words he had planned on saying after waking up, but the age-old duty of care he had when it came to his family had awoken alongside with him. “Isabelle Lightwood.”

The capsule was quiet for a moment as the AI ran a check on his clearance and was apparently satisfied with what it had found. _Information available. Passenger number four set to land in fourteen minutes. Condition: stable._

“Staff check-up, Jace Herondale.”

_Information not available._

“No,” Alec protested before he’d had the chance to realise that it was no use arguing with a computer. “No, that’s not— Jonathan,” he tried, although the stupid archiving system they were equipped with was really supposed to know better than to ignore the several aliases that a lot of the crew members had. “Staff check-up on Jonathan Herondale.”

_Information not available._

Heart feeling like it was slowly working its way up to his throat, Alec did his best to keep himself collected. At least half of his crew had already landed on the (now rapidly approaching) shimmering blue world below and were now waiting for him in the docking area to receive further instructions. They were likely less than an hour away from first contact. One small misstep could ruin it all and it didn’t even matter; the dream-memory of Jace being so far away making him more frantic still. The cramped space he’d been just barely tolerating so far suddenly seemed unbearable.

“Passenger number two,” he offered in the end. “Give me the exact location.”

 _Passenger not found._ If the AI was capable of hesitation, Alec would have said that it was experiencing it right now. It was either that or a short wait in anticipation of the next command. _In case of permanent memory loss, missing information, or missing crew members, please alert Homeworld. If any crucial changes in the staff, circumstances of the mission and/or local protocol occur, an instant call for assistance is suggested._

“Give me the number of people on board the ship before the landing procedure started.” It would be a welcome distraction and an easy way to find where something had gone wrong.

“Three hundred forty-six,” the machine offered.

“And the capsules in the main control room?”

“Twelve.”

The exact number of people in Alec’s leading team. So whatever had happened, it had to have been _later_. Jace had been there when they’d fallen asleep and he’d apparently been there when the ship had sent them flying towards the surface of the settlers’s supposed new home. What kind of welcoming team would kidnap a key crew member as a first act when it came to humanity? They hadn’t seemed anywhere near as hostile as humanity itself when Alec had last read their files.

_Prepare yourself for landing. Local custom suggests—_

Disoriented by the panic and the change of topic, Alec reached for the limited controls he was offered in the capsule, doing his best to make sure he would reach the surface smoothly enough. The details of the surface in question evaded him and the last thing he needed was a concussion. The slight _thud_ and the sudden pull of gravity that he’d got used to over the years followed moments later.

 _Welcome to Aloron XIII_ , the bot buzzed over his head. Alec batted it away as he freed himself from the multiple safety belts wrapped around his body and the glass over his head lifted slowly. _Local time: 2:14 PM. Temperature: 23 degrees Celsius. If necessary, translation to local units is available. Please head towards the designated newcomer area, room one: essential personnel. Personal message from Homeworld to follow._

Under just about any other circumstances, Alec thought bitterly, this would have been the best moment of this mission. It always had been before. He tapped his earpiece awake. “Izzy?”

Nothing. His pace picked up as he neared the meeting point for everyone who’d been in charge of the mission, his legs just unsteady enough for him to start wondering whether he’d make it. Undeterred, his personal assistant soldiered on.

 _Congratulations on your arrival, Captain Lightwood! The instructions for the proceedings from here on and the options for first contact are already in your database. Seeing as you’ve already memorised them,_ if it hadn’t been for the mechanical voice reading this out, Alec thought with a twinge of pain, he would have heard the pride and hint of laughter in his mother’s message, _make sure to repeat every detail to the crew as soon as you’ve gathered on Aloron XIII. This is crucial; even if only a handful of you will be responsible for the first impression, the rest of the people you’ve brought there are settlers. They need to be prepared. A returning message is expected as soon as your mission is accomplished._ A short pause followed, along with the distinct sound of the recording device being turned off. _Be safe. Contact the base immediately if something goes wrong. Love, Maryse._

It was a calming message, even if not directly delivered, but not enough to bring him even a resemblance of peace. The bot followed as soon he started entering his passkey into the door, ever so annoyingly helpful. _Would you like for the message to be repeated for—_

“No, I wouldn’t.” Third time’s the charm, Alec thought before venturing again, “Staff check-up, Jonathan Herondale.”

_Information not available. In case of missing personnel, make sure to alert—_

“Homeworld,” Alec finished along with the device, frustration seeping out of every syllable. It was an easy thing to offer, both for his mother and the AI. Neither of them was in charge of this mission; neither of them had studied the Dlit’aii for as long as he had. They were a rather sensitive society by humanity’s standards; any hint of accusation about his supposedly missing second in command would be outrageous with no proof, even if he didn’t feel like it was required. If this wasn’t all an innocent mistake in their ship’s insanely complicated system, he would turn this entire world upside down in order to find him.

The thought was promptly put to the side as soon as the door slid open and Isabelle practically flung herself at him, her hold around him tight enough that Alec would have thought she had never expected to see him again. Given the distinct lack of the third part of their usual group – he wasn’t here, Alec had _checked_ already even as he held his sister close – he suspected that that had been exactly the case.

“Communication devices don’t work in here,” she said as soon as she pulled away. He could see the same frantic worry in her eyes, even if he suspected it was far better masked than his own. Izzy loved Jace, there was no denying that, but she had always been better at staying composed when the circumstances of a mission separated the three of them. It was the only logical way to look at things, Alec was well aware of it, but he’d never really felt like he’d had a _choice_. Neither did Jace; he’d shared as much with him many years ago. The same mad, frenzied urge had been burning under their skins their entire lives, tying them to each other in a way that nothing else had, not even the promises they’d made to each other in countless ways over the years. Ever since he’d met him, Alec had felt stretched thin, pulled inside and out into a life shaped largely by the dreams they’d built together.

As much as he loved his sister, Alec had never really thought of telling her all about it. It wasn’t something that anyone else would understand, they’d always felt, and so they’d kept it to themselves. They’d never been separated for long enough for Alec to be able to feel the _loneliness_ that took over in Jace’s absence and he was vaguely cognisant of the fact that it was bleeding into his every gesture as he carefully detached himself from Izzy’s hold.

“Not short range ones, no,” he said as he pointed to the bot still wheezing around him. Everyone else had already deactivated theirs – it was easy to see, considering that his team added up to less than a dozen people right now. “I can still get in touch with Homeworld.”

“ _Alec_.” It hadn’t been meant as an admonishment, but he could still see the doubt in Izzy’s eyes; the realisation of just how serious he thought this was. She knew him well enough to know that he’d have exhausted every other option before ending up here, but the protest remained, fuelled by the same anxiety that had stopped him from going ahead with his current plan by now. “Mistakes happen. It’s not the first time someone’s been delayed a bit—”

“He’s not in the flight data after we started landing, Iz. I was supposed to be the last one to land; there’s no way something has gone _this_ wrong without it also being dangerous.” Neither of them had mentioned a name, but it still hung in the air around them, saturated as the guilt that came dangerously close to choking him. He could have stayed a little longer, _talked_ to him, and this could have all been different. Whatever complicated feelings he’d had on everything that had happened, they were all far too trivial for him to dwell in now that Jace was so far away and—

Alec blinked, quickly taking in his surroundings. He was still in the newcomer area, surrounded by tense silence, his sister’s inquisitive look and his team members scattered around the room and watching the view outside in an effort to rid themselves of the tension. Of _course_ he was here. And he’d really left nothing unsaid when he’d last seen Jace – they always made sure to be particularly careful with that whenever a new mission started. Their relationship was the most wonderfully simple thing in Alec’s life; a given as much as their endless pursuit of the worlds that hid beyond the stars. He _had_ talked to Jace. It was just maddening that he could no longer get in touch, the lack of information making him feel even more helpless and _he’d been here before_.

“—to check with the local authorities before they get the wrong idea. Alec?”

“Yes,” Alec mumbled, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. “But it’s been long enough. They should have either got in touch already or gave us a sign that they have one of our crew if he crash-landed. “He tapped the bot gravitating around his head to get its attention again. “You can proceed.”

_I beg your pardon?_

Chances were, of course, that Izzy was right. It was ridiculous. It was too much, too soon, but Alec couldn’t help himself. Jace missing would always be enough to catapult him straight into forming a search party before anyone else could blink, and then there had been the _dreams_ , all the dreams he’d had ever since they’d first met; like it was a life led on several planes of existence, one standing out far more than the others, bright and pulsing with shadows and magic and more improbable things than he could easily count.

“Contact Homeworld.” It wasn’t _his_ homeworld – this wasn’t a big enough problem to be sent to Earth just yet – but everyone back in their base on Planet 1523/25 would be furious if he’d called them in vain, so it might as well have been. “Issue: missing personnel. Jonathan Herondale, passenger number two, personal ID 834260-31.”

_Report filed by Alexander Lightwood on day 256 of the Aloron XIII mission accepted. Confirmation pending. Please enter your password._

“Alec,” Izzy warned again, and if this had concerned just about anything – any _one_ – else, he knew that he’d have listened; would have taken the worry in her voice into account and let himself think of the consequences.

This wasn’t anyone else.

Personal passwords were usually a Captain’s last chance to back off from whatever action they’d been about to take. It had to be something unique and Alec’s heart sped up its rhythm once again as he remembered his own. It had been a seemingly random choice – a phrase from an early twenty-first century mythology book he’d read as a child; the kind of story about the heroes fighting against supernatural evil that people had been so obsessed with in the Middle Ages. It was something he and Jace had been playing at as children, long before they’d both realised what it would all eventually lead up to. It sounded close enough to gibberish for him to be sure that there was only one person in his usual surroundings who could repeat it back to him.

“Confirm action,” he said, voice as low as possible while still being audible. “ _Parab_ —”

“Alec!”

For all of an instant, time stood still, suspended on the thread of hope that Alec was still clinging to between his panic and his anger. Then, with a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob, he spun around on his heel just in time to see the door slide closed behind Jace’s back; just in time to press him close enough to hurt once they met in the middle.

And just like that, none of it seemed like a given anymore. The feel of Jace in his arms, the way his hair tickled Alec’s nose when Jace buried his face in his shoulder, the painfully familiar scent of artificial fabric clinging to his uniform – added up, it somehow managed to be the most precious thing in the history of the Universe.

“I couldn’t find you,” Alec rasped out when he’d found the strength to speak. All of the terror he’d kept bottled up somehow had poured out so quickly that it’d left him breathless now that he could let himself actually _feel_. “Jace, you weren’t _there_ , and if you’d vanished in this solar system, I would never see you again, how did you—”

He almost protested when Jace pulled away so that he could look up at him, Alec’s hold tightening around him almost imperceptibly. His laughter when it came was just as exhausted, if a little calmer.

“It’s Lightwood,” he said finally. “We changed my credentials to Jace _Lightwood_ before we climbed on board, remember? And since it’s a last name, the stupid archive wouldn’t accept anything else but my memories were a mess and—”

Alec kissed him before he could finish, inordinately grateful for the fact that their entire crew had decided to leave them to it until this particular issue was solved. Of _course_ they’d changed it. It had been so new still and even if Jace had kept his own family name too – it had a rather fascinating history in space travel – he hadn’t been able to resist registering himself under Alec’s, considering that he’d received it only days prior. Alec’s heart sang as he trailed his fingers over Jace’s jawline, the miniature, gleaming gold of their marriage certificate all the comfort he could need to cement himself back into reality.

“I hate those capsules,” Jace said as soon as they’d parted, his eyes glistening suspiciously even as he did his best to stay composed. Alec grinned back at him, one hand still cupping his face.

“I know.”

“You don’t. I _hate_ them. Next time we do this, we’re landing the entire ship. I can’t do this again. Don’t ever leave me alone in a c—”

***

“—cell.”

His own voice gasping out a warning-declaration had been enough to wake him; not a great indication of a particularly stable sleeping pattern. For a moment, Jace’s eyes struggled for focus in the darkness of his temporary room, dark and cramped and nothing like the bottomless stretch of space he’d been able to glance at over Alec’s shoulders just moment ago. There they had been, thousands upon thousands of stars and a new world full of possibilities right in front of them; a new life.

Brand new, it would seem.

With a groan, Jace dragged himself upright and felt his way around the room until he found the limited supplies for contact with the outside world that he’d been provided with. A firemessage wouldn’t be enough to say it all – not when his memories had taken the shape of something that could not have possibly happened just yet; something pulled out of his own mind – but it would have to do. He had _felt_ his own life in a way he rarely had before – stretched beyond the limits of his present, the nagging sensation of it being somehow intertwined with Alec’s in this life, _this_ present, rooted even deeper than before. Was it the bond that connected them like this? It was difficult not to let his mind wander in that particular direction after so many lifetimes of feeling like it all somehow added up to the here and now.

There was only one way to find out, he supposed. The soft light of Jace’s candle illuminated his cell, casting shadows over his confession as he set to work, the unspoken weight of their shared secret spilling onto the parchment, smooth as ink.

_Parabatai—_


	11. 2051: First Contact with the Mindbridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this incarnation is mostly taken from the world built in Joe Haldeman's _Mindbridge_ , which I highly recommend if anything in this chapter sparks joy. I couldn't resist playing with the concept of the mind bridge in reference to our favorite parabatai. If you've read the book you'll recognize a very suspicious similarity...

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Alec muttered, in what he hoped was a dignified—and, more importantly, inaudible—undertone. He stepped delicately over a rotting log, hyperaware of what happened last time Jace went to the Faerie realm. A fly had been buzzing around him for what felt like hours, but he didn’t dare do much more than swat at it. He did glare at it, though. Report that to your Queen.  
  
“I didn’t talk you into this, Alec.” Izzy countered. She looked far less agitated than Alec felt, stepping through the underbrush with unharried grace. There was something stern and rigid in her expression that he recognized as tension, and with an uncomfortable jolt in his stomach he remembered this was likely her first time visiting Meliorn since Maryse and Robert forced her to cut things off. He’d never asked how deep that had gone. Considering she’d done it to try and stop his marriage to Lydia, he supposed that maybe he should have asked. “You talked me into it. I talked Meliorn into it, and I presume you talked Jace into it.”  
  
Another stomach bump. He hadn’t exactly spoken to Jace about his idea. It hadn’t come up—he’d been so relieved to see him, to feel the tingle of proximity in their bond that made such warmth buoy up in his chest that he hadn’t been able to bring it up. Jace had been troubled, obviously, but he looked...different. As if the many facets of the dreams were reflecting back in his face. It had been confusing, all those different emotions, most of them foreign, roiling in Alec’s chest. He had to know if Jace felt it too but he couldn’t ask, too afraid of the answer. Of what either a _yes_ or a _no_ could mean for the both of them. “Okay, fine. I can’t believe I talked myself into this.”  
  
Izzy smiled. “A little more confidence, please. Don’t embarrass me in front of Meliorn. He may not be my boyfriend but he _is_ currently the only one I have who’ll watch _F.R.I.E.N.D.S_ re-runs with me, not to mention one of our best informers.”  
  
Alec cracked a smile, then felt it fall. Izzy’s previous fellow _Friends_ fan had been Sebastian, who, like his sister, seemed to find the whiles of mundane TV endlessly entertaining. He thought of Max, still coalescing in Idris, and felt his jaw clench and something wild and angry rise in his chest before being pushed down. He felt a resounding throb in their rune, and an unpleasant thrill ran down his spine. Was Jace reacting to his feeling, or the thought itself? “Yeah, of course. Best behavior.”  
  
Izzy gave him a look. “He’s a knight in the Queen’s court, Alec. And he owns the whole box set. I’m going to need better than best.”  
  
Alec gave her a wry smile. That was one of Isabelle’s secret strengths—saying things while not saying them. He had a thing or two to learn from her about diplomacy. That wasn’t to say she couldn’t be blunt, or wouldn’t tell you what she thought if she felt like it. She had a way of saying what he needed to hear in the way he would listen. _Be respectful_ under the guise of _don’t lose me my TV buddy_. “Noted. Consider my best diplomacy as head of the institute activated.”  
  
Izzy’s lips curled upwards before pulling down into a dubious look, and she gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. “Good.”  
  
“Thank you for doing this,” Alec bowled on. He’d sworn to himself not to make an ass of himself, no matter how desperately he needed answers. “I’m sure Meliorn must have taken some convincing.”  
  
“Not really.” Izzy’s tone was light, a bounce to her step that he hadn’t seen in a long time. “It hardly took anything at all, actually. He’s really got a thing for collecting siblings.”  
  
Before Alec could protest, or even make some kind of commentary, something light and shimmering winked into existence. Alec blinked, resisting the temptation to rub at his eyes. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there seconds prior. Meliorn’s tent—Alec wasn’t sure if that was his permanent home or whether he regularly wandered the forests—was made of a shimmering diaphanous material that seemed to have been woven from a spider’s silk. The fabric seemed to shudder and sway in a breeze that couldn’t be felt.  
  
“Isabelle.” Meliorn’s voice sounded through the tent walls and then the curtains parted, revealing the man himself. He was dressed in simple white cotton pants and shirt, hair wound into an elaborate knot. The scar that now rippled over his face was in stark relief to his smooth skin and cool eyes. He dipped down just enough to kiss her hand and Alec felt his eyebrows raise of their own accord. With effort, he dragged them back down. If he knew Meliorn, Alec knew he was nettling him on purpose. Testing him.  
  
“Knight Meliorn,” Alec said, with a traditional bow of respect. He kept his tone clipped and formal, not too familiar, not cool enough to sound hostile. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us.”  
  
Meliorn’s well-groomed eyebrows raised, something amused and unnervingly _old_ in his expression. As if he’d heard Alec’s lines thousands of times before and batted them back without thinking. “No need for formalities,” he said, with an easy air, light as the linen of his tunic. He bent, and before Alec could stop him he’d taken Alec’s hand in cool fingers and pressed the barest kiss to Alec’s knuckles.  
  
Izzy winked. Alec made a furious face. Alec could have sworn he felt a tickle of amusement that felt like Jace that faded as quickly as it came. “Thank you,” Alec replied, hearing the stiltedness in his own voice. He shot Izzy a glare that said _not helping_.  
  
“Shall we?” Meliorn made a fluid gesture towards the fluttering, gossamer flaps of the tent. His smile was solicitous but Alec felt Meliorn’s eyes on his back as he bowed his head to step inside. Intricately embroidered pillows and roughly woven blankets were strewn over the floor, a shimmering sheen of Seelie magic holding back from dissipating into the forest. On the floor was a large mat Alec took to be a bed, along with a table laden with strange fruits Alec didn’t recognize.  
  
Izzy sat down easily at the table and picked up one of the fruits from the table. Alec’s eyes widened as she took a crisp bite—had she lost her mind?  
  
“Relax,” Meliorn said, as if reading Alec’s mind. “Isabelle and I have reached an agreement. Besides,” he added with a wink Izzy’s way, “that fruit is hardly the only thing that has been eaten within these walls.”  
  
Alec felt himself nod, unable to do anything but follow Izzy’s lead and arrange himself laboriously on a cushion. He did not even dare look at the fruit. “Oh.”  
  
Meliorn gave a superior smile, settling down across the table from Izzy and Alec. His dark eyes glittered, and Alec tried to imagine him watching TV shows with Izzy and failed. “Isabelle tells me you would like to learn about dreamwalking.”  
  
Alec swallowed. He’d come so far, risked so much to get here—he couldn’t back down, not now. “Yes,” he said at last, his voice unsteady in a too-dry throat. “Izzy told me you can teach me.”  
  
For a moment Meliorn was silent, reaching for what looked like a plum and cutting into it delicately with a silver knife. Next to him, Izzy was finishing off the fruit she’d started, nodding her appreciation. Not for the first time, Alec wondered which of them was less sane one. Meliorn’s dark eyes swept over him, probing for weakness, and Alec bore it with a stoic silence. This, he could bear. “For what purpose?”  
  
Alec hesitated. Everything he told Meliorn he had to assume the Queen would learn, even if Meliorn had apparently sworn otherwise. It was how the information ecosystem functioned—even those who could not lie found a way. Still, the texts from the Praetor and been next to useless and he’d been haunted by the echoing emptiness of waking up in that antiseptic white pod without Jace—not a character from a dream, _Jace_. The taut urgence in Jace’s eyes when he’d shown him the text from Brother Zachariah, the tightness in Alec’s chest as he read the signatures,  Antoine de Lyon’s panic at losing Josaiah rising in him like bile. Like a premonition, he kept losing Jace and _losing_ —it had to be a sign. Of something—of anything. Was he interfering with Jace’s treatment? Were the dreams, as Izzy suggested, a distraction from the Silent Brothers’ work? Or worse, a manifestation of a growing madness festering between them?  
  
“It’s—“ Alec broke off, unsure of himself. “It’s...complicated. I’ve received dreams I’d like to explore, in my waking mind.” F _ind Jace. He needed to find Jace._ That was always what it boiled down to, deceptively simple.  
  
“Dreamwalking is not exploration,” Meliorn corrected, with little ire. He spoke as if commenting on the weather, unmoved by Alec’s struggles. “It is transcendence of one world to the other. Collapsing two binary poles of reality.”  
  
Alec glanced Izzy’s way but she was starting on another of the plums, looking unconcerned and unfazed the goings on. He resisted the urge to pick at the wicker lining of his cushion. He thought of nothing to say but, “Okay.”  
  
Meliorn’s lips pursed and he gave a sliver moon of an eye-roll. “Realities are as complex and further stretching than time. Too clumsy of an attempt to fuse two parallel planes could cause a collapse.” He gave a liquid shrug. “Besides, no one has truly attempted it in centuries.”  
  
Alec was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an expert, but _collapse_ did not sound good. Alec tried to catch Izzy’s eye again but she was looking at Meliorn with perhaps a little too much intensity. He made a very soft sound by clearing his throat and giving Izzy a rather pointed look; she and Meliorn turned their attention back to him, clearly unapologetic. “I understand the risk. Can you help me?”  
  
The truth was, that was a lie. Alec had not considered the risks—he didn’t even fully understand them. It went against the very grain of him to leap before he looked (that had always been Jace’s domain, not his), but he felt compelled as if by an outside force, inexorable. For Jace, he would have done anything.  
  
“I can,” Meliorn confirmed, his smile inscrutable, and for the first time Alec realized he had never asked Izzy how old he was. For that second, he seemed all but primal. “I confess the magic of Nephilim has long fascinated me. For this, I will teach you what I know. I trust Isabelle has already instructed you in the use of an anchor?”  
  
Alec nodded, swallowing his misgivings whole. “She has. She...she is the anchor, actually.” He looked away from Izzy’s gaze quickly, strangely embarrassed. Her hand found his, warm and small but iron-strong, and gave it a quick squeeze. “I’ve...I’ve entered dreams before, but I don’t think they’re just dreams. Or, um, dimensions. I think it could be some sort of...echo from the past.”  
  
_Echoes from the past_ sounded pretty dramatic, but he decided that Seelies were theatrical enough beings that they could handle it without making fun of him. What he didn’t say, of course, was that his interest in the past was not purely academic—he needed a way to reach Jace, to reach through the wall of distance and confusion that had built up between them. To get to the bottom of whatever was happening with the bond. He couldn’t risk interrupting Jace’s treatment or jeopardize it in any way, but by the Angel if he wasn’t going to use the tools he had at his disposal. And if that meant trusting Meliorn, then so be it.  
  
Meliorn gave a thoughtful hum, brow drawn in thought. “Curious. Since Isabelle is your anchor, she can assist in the ritual.”  
  
Ritual? Something akin to the clammy chill of battle washed over him. He’d made the choice to trust Izzy’s judgment and go to Meliorn for help, but a Seelie ritual? It was beyond reckless. “What ritual?”  
  
Meliorn looked amused, picking a strange-looking flower from an overflowing, strangely swaying bouquet at the head of the table, pinching the stem of the tiny bud. “The lifeblood of Faerie is the very magic you seek. With the assistance of Isabelle, you will go into a deep sleep, so that you may dive more deeply into the dream, without the interference of your conscious mind. Then, once you have found what you sought, you may return with the matching flower that will return you to the surface of your consciousness.”  
  
Alec’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord. “Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to do some kind of drug, go to sleep, and only wake up when I find some kind of dream flower? What does it even look like? How do I know if it’ll be there? What if I don’t find it—?”  
  
Before Izzy could repudiate his outburst with a glare, Meliorn gave a wry chuckle, apparently unruffled. “So many questions.” He aimed a nod her way. “If you do not, your anchor will ground you until you wake. However, it is not an exact process. Your sleep could last for days—the toll on her could be significant.”  
  
Alec did  _not_ like the sound of that. Before he could ask, Izzy said, “Don’t worry. The only subject in biology my brother was good at was botany.”  
  
She and Meliorn exchanged rather superior looks, and Alec wondered how one person could be so undyingly faithful but also completely disloyal. He knew his anatomy. He’d banished Azazel, after all. Before he could protest, Meliorn raised a hand a scroll of the same diaphanous material as the tent walls billowing around them materialized. “Very well. I will finalize the lunar calculations and prepare the elixr, and explain whatever you must know to ease your misgivings. You and the lovely Isabelle may prepare by a favored meditation technique, though I advise the both of you to choose a similar one. Then, once night has fallen, we shall begin.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“I can’t believe it gets worse every time,” Carol groused. Her voice came out tinny through Jacqueline’s suit speakers, like the buzz of a fly in Jacqueline’s ears. “Levant-Meyer Translation, my ass. More like ‘lost my fucking lunch.’”  
  
“Your grasp on acronyms sucks,” another voice butted in. _Elliott,_ her mind supplied for her. Jacqueline’s nose itched, and she felt herself despair. The Tamers’ suits were built to withstand everything, save perhaps swimming—EMT, lava, electrocution, poison gases, pH extremes, and the pressure of vacuum—but they were not built for comfort. She could lift the weight of three men in one hand, but god help her if she tried to raise her arms above shoulder level. Or, as it so happened, scratch her nose.  
  
“When Homeworld pays me to make up acronyms, my grasp will be perfect,” Carol shot back. “Until then, Elliott, I suggest you shut the hell up.”  
  
“Cut the chatter,” Jacqueline admonished, finding the floater unit’s camera and waving a hand to signal it should come closer. She pretended she did not see the rude gesture Elliott made with his suit. “We’re here to find enough samples to fill Homeworld’s coffers and get the hell off-planet, not dawdle around until our suits rust.” As if to accentuate her point, the thick mud sucked at her boot, making a horrific squelching sound as she stepped to the side. The suit’s servos strained as she lifted the sample cooler from the floater unit. A dextrous twist of her wrist and her suit camera engaged with a soft _ping_. “You all got that?”  
  
“Aye aye, Captain,” Carol returned, just wryly enough that Jacqueline grinned. That was what she liked to hear—especially in the bedroom. “No more comms chatter. Everything by the book, never mind the book was written for and by idiots. We’ll be good little level one Tamers, sir yessir!”  
  
Jacqueline rolled her eyes, nudging her suit deeper into the muck. To her relief, preliminary analysis from the handheld scanner suggested it was little more than silicone sand with a healthy dose of good old H2O. “You were never a good little level one Tamer. But good news, the mud’s safe. Try not to get it in your seams.”  
  
Despite the claims of the lowest bidding contractor, the suits’ external grooves were not entirely waterproof. As Jacqueline and hundreds of Tamers had found firsthand, this went double for sand. One wrong contamination and you could find yourself with grinding servos, paralyzed. Jacqueline had tied more than one of her many teams to the floater with paracord and let it drag them back to the LMT coordinates. One suited Tamer weighed over two-hundred kilos. Being stuck was like being buried alive, but if your coffin also recycled all of your bodily fluids and fed it back to you as emergency hydration. It was one hell of a design flaw.  
  
The whine of her suit’s servos ground in her ears as she bent down to root around in the muck, careful not to submerge any of the suit’s major arteries. The haptic touch response transmitted the finest sensations to her fingertips—the thickness of the mud, the occasional prickle of a branch or the press of a rock or shell. Jacqueline chased something that felt solid, fumbling with the suit’s unwieldy, durable paws.  
  
“Oh shit, this one looks like a dick.” Carol’s voice sounded in her ear again. “I wonder if it really is a—oh fuck, it’s just a rock.”  
  
Jacqueline rolled her eyes. She’d caught hold of the elusive shell and it turned out to be nothing but a fragment. A far cry from her best find, a sad little mollusk-esque creature that turned out to have metaphorical diamonds for blood. After a bit of GMO magic from people who did that sort of thing, the little fucker had proven a viable and dirt-cheap alternative to horseshoe crab blood. It had made the international council of the Homeworld millions and earned Jacqueline her promotion—and, through it, Carol. “I’ll mute this chat.”  
  
Carol was already wading her way to the sample cooler. “Yeah, yeah. And I’ll finally get around to spacing that matching underwear set you like. Empty threats, baby.”  
  
“Uh, guys?” Eliott’s voice crackled over the speakers. “I can still hear you, you know.”  
  
“Then you better start recording, because it’s gonna be a hell of a long time before you can get your dick to your palm,” Carol said. A muffled string of curses. “Motherfucker, that thing is slimy. Eliott, get your ass over here. I think I’ve got something living over here, and you’ve got the most practice grasping things shaped like penises.”  
  
A crackle of static that sounded like a laugh. “I feel very objectified.”  
  
“Don’t mind her, Carol thinks everything is dick-shaped.” Jacqueline waded her way over to the sample cooler, shelving her latest find.  “Remember, we get double for living specimens. Don’t fill the floater with rocks, or I’ll make sure it gets deducted from your pay, not mine.”  
  
“Fuck, fuck, I think I’ve got it!” Elliott’s joyous cries turned shrill and piercing through the suit’s poor modulation. With a twist of her fingers Jacqueline flicked up her HUD. Elliott’s suit gloves were clamped around something she couldn’t see, Carol badgering him with repeated exhortations to, “ _Let me see, let me see!_ ”  
  
With effort, Jacqueline straightened up, plowing her way through the mud to see—and record—whatever the fuss was about. If it was something valuable, Homeworld would want all the original footage it could get. What happened in those first few seconds could be invaluable.  
  
“Give it here,” Carol was saying, manhandling the creature out of Elliott’s grip. It was about as nondescript as a primitive organism could get, a faint translucent pink under the brown mud. Veins pulsed under the outer membrane. There was no visible organ save a tube from one end to the other—Jacqueline couldn’t remember whether that made it a duterostome or a proteostome. Hell, it didn’t matter. There was a reason she was hauling metal ass crotch-deep in mud, not in some fancy lab somewhere. “Don’t crush it, you ass. Jacqueline, baby, can you call over the floater? I want to get sample analysis on this thing stat—“  
  
Carol’s suit lurched and Jacqueline reached out a glove automatically to keep her from toppling. For a second she was afraid she’d crushed Carol’s prize and then—  
  
_oh fuck ohfuck gonnakillme fuck_  
  
_fucking leveltwo dropping sample floater jaque no—_  
  
“Holy shit,” said Carol, and she almost dropped it. Jacqueline had recoiled, only her suit’s gyros keeping her from toppling into the mud. “That’s fucking—did we just—“  
  
“Orgasm?” Elliott’s tone was wry. “Not to ruin the moment, but that thing’s hardly gonna bring in anything but a month’s bonus. Split three ways? Nothing to get hot and bothered over.”  
  
They reached out for each other, clumsy, terrified. Jaqueline’s glove crashed into Carol’s, pressing over the strange, sessile organism.  
  
_motherfucker no fucking way—_  
  
                                                                                             _some magic bullshit I swear to fuck_  
  
_Jace isthatyou?_  
  
_whoisJace ....Alec?_  
  
_the flash of red eyelids blink swallow shit can’t think Jace_  
_Meliornwasright Jace it’s you disbelief_  
  
_how is this owmyleg where am I_  
_Alecitsyou how_  
  
Jacqueline— _Alec_ —withdrew his hand, mind reeling in half-completed fragments of thoughts. Meliorn was right. He was in the dream and more importantly he was himself and Jace—Jace was Jace. The dream tugged at his consciousness, heavy and seductive, but he fought off the skin of the other. Straining to focus, Alec fought back to what Meliorn had said. _Center yourself in the present and cast yourself forward or back, like a fisherman’s net..._ Thinking of the subtle shine of Izzy’s whip coiled on her wrist and the thick smell of the Jade Wolf’s signature specials, Alec closed his eyes and pressed, imagining ripples forcing themselves over still water, a fisherman’s lure bobbing on the surface, radiating outwards, forwards...  
  
The creature was a bridge, an organism that could transmit thoughts between two minds. Ali would die of inexplicable heart failure in just moments. Dead in his suit. Carol’s favorite color was blue. Their wedding would be draped in thistle and gold. A dog. The smell of coffee, the gentle luster of Carol’s hair, the heat of her breath tickling Jacqueline’s cheek—  
  
Jacqueline’s suit melted away into the mud and she sank down into the muck, slipping through vacuum into Carol’s fresh-washed sheets, the smell of her detergent mingling with her mother’s perfume. Jacqueline’s hand trailed over Carol’s chestnut skin, shared warmth pooling in their pressed-together chests. Carol’s hand in Jacqueline’s hair, whispering _Jacque baby let’s try the bridge again, that was magical..._  
  
Chestnuts. There were no chestnuts on Earth, not after the fire and flood. Idris had such beautiful chestnut trees, tall and bright and beautiful. Izzy had always dragged him out to the back of the Lightwood Manor in the summertime, pelting him and Jace with the shells—  
  
Jace said Alec as their fingers mingled around the bridge _Jace it’s me hold on don’t go_  
  
Confusion suffused their bond before a familiar sense washed over both of them. Jace’s free hand went from Alec’s hip to Carol’s side, where his rune would be, and Alec felt the light brush on Jacqueline’s hip. Carol’s eyes, once brown, had changed to a brilliant gold and blue.  
  
                                                                                             _I’m here Alec how are you whatisgoingon_  
_Zachariah the Silent Brothers Iwroteyoualetter_  
  
_don’t be mad had to missedyou the bond_  
_thought Iwasgoing crazy neededyou make sure everythingok_  
  
A sense of reassurance flowed between them, hot and poignant as the hot cup of tea Robert had brought him after his first real fight with Maryse, the trust and gratitude and love multiplied tenfold and reflected back between them _ad infinitum_. The strength and need flowing between them was so much more intimate than the hot press of Carol and Jaqueline’s skin, amplified by the two bodies’ familiar knowledge. Hands roamed and lips touched on muscle memory from a thousand lives shared over and over as the bridge melted away and their souls wove in to touch—  
  
Heat enveloped them. Heat like the red slick of blood over their hand and Imogen’s lifeless weight their arms, heat like digging into Valentine’s finally-still corpse and the crackle-pop of bone, like Lilith’s lips locking over their own and that vital, primal force filling them up like smoke. Heat like Valentine’s knife in their chest, twisting like the rising lump of disbelief in their throat, the sting of tears forced back as they leaned over the ice-cold railing to watch that white pale body float down the choppy current billowing black blood.  
  
But heat and hot horror slowly dissolved into warmth—the warmth of the Institute, the warmth of his _parabatai’s_ arms around him and his resting his head on Alec’s shoulder. Warmth like the familiar lifeblood of their bond rushing like a living heartbeat, the sun’s rays tickling his skin from the Institute gardens’ sunroof. The gentle breeze of that fateful afternoon so many years ago rifling through the greenery, the lawn of daffodils bright and yellow.  
  
_Hey, uh, Jace. I, um, I have something to ask you. Something important._ A pause, portentous and potent as shadow stretching over the sun, their mind filling the lapse with darkness. _Would you—I mean, would you want to—do you want to be my parabatai?_  
  
They’d looked in Alec’s eyes, so brown and deadly serious, fingers fretting with the cuff of his training gear at his sides, and they’d seen the eyes of a broken falcon. To love was to destroy, but Alec had loved and they had not been brought to ruin. They’d thought of Michael Wayland, the aching wistfulness in his eyes when he’d spoken of his brother-in-arms. _Parabatai_. The thought bloomed in him like one of the daffodils, bright and sunny like spring, and he’d reached out and picked it.

The loop was complete and one soul split back to two. Like Gilgamesh, Alec grasped the flower and swam back up towards the surface.

  
  
  
  
Brother Zacharaiah raised an eyebrow, impressed by either the tale or Jace's semi-incoherent rendition of it. _I can’t say I ever did enough drugs to kill a horse, so I admit that part of your metaphor was lost on me. However, I do believe I understand the sentiment. If I could suggest a rather modern favorite of yours: mindfuck?_  
  
Jace scrubbed his hands down his face, feeling the rawness all the way down. His eyes stung like he’d been up for days without sleep, though it felt as if he had done nothing but. A bursting headache pounded in his skull like a dangerous hangover and his whole body ached with a profound tiredness. “Yeah, the drugs thing was a metaphor. Mindfuck...mindfuck works. My mind? Is definitely fucked.”  
  
_Fucked in what way, exactly?_  
  
Jace coughed out a laugh—he couldn’t help it. Zachariah’s slightly raised eyebrow paired with his somber parchment robes, not to mention the dungeon-esque setting, were outright comedic paired with a sentence he’d expect from Simon or Clary. “Uhh, I don’t know. Maybe I do. I—I talked to Alec. Which I know sounds crazy,” he added, quickly. “But I really did. And...I think he blames himself for what happened—everything that happened. And I’m just sitting here like...he can’t. How can he? I mean, did he make me kill Imogen? Don’t think so. So how can he—“ here Jace’s voice breaks. He can’t hide it. He doesn’t even try. “How can he think _I_ blame _him_?”  
  
To Jace’s surprise and vague annoyance, Zachariah’s expression hardly changed, turning just slightly more knowing. _Ahh,_ he said, and even in his head it sounded just a little bit _too_ knowing. _I don’t suppose you’d like to carry that insight further?_  
  
Jace stared at him, digging one nail under the other in order to feel the dull prick of pain. He felt purposefully obtuse, like a stubborn ass. “What do you mean?”  
  
A gentle smile, and a sigh that seemed to reverberate in his own chest. _If you won’t blame Alec, why do you blame yourself?_  
  
“That’s—“ Jace broke off. Something tight and uncomfortable was rising in his chest, something between frustration and laughter. He felt buoyed up and crestfallen all at once, several half-realized thoughts warring in his head. He felt the incomprehensible urge to say _fuck you_ and _what the fuck_ at the same time. “That’s not the same.”  
  
Zachariah’s smile turned just a shade more knowing and Jace felt his muddied thoughts turn to a petulant kind of frustration. _Ahh. Of course not._  
  
_"_ You don't have to be a dick about it," said Jace, but for what felt like the first time since his resurrection he felt like grinning.


	12. Same Time, Same Place

Alec had struggled throughout the morning to focus, sometimes just to stand, leaning hard on the ops centre table.

“Alec... Alec... _Alec!_ ” Izzy finally snaps, grabbing his arm to get his attention, “Earth to Alec…”

“Sorry,” he says, physically trying to shake it off and nearly stumbling over his feet for his efforts, “What is it?”

“Are you okay?”

Recognizing he's been caught, Alec jerks his head in the direction of the hall, and they head off towards his office.

“I think it's the dream walking. It wasn't like being asleep. It's almost as if for every hour I was dream walking, an hour or two of actual sleep was _stolen_ from me. Is that crazy?” Alec asks.

“It could be…?” Izzy says, frowning, “I'll ask Meliorn.”

“Don't bother. I'll catch up on the sleep in a few nights.”

“No, Alec,” Izzy says, giving her best disproving-sibling glare, “you're going to make it up _now_.”

Alec opens his mouth to protest but she shuts him down. “You're making mistakes. Go. Nap.”

Alec sighs but obliges. He falls into his bed fully clothed, and is out in seconds.

\-----

Coming home to his village for the first time in ten years, Hilkel no longer recognized most of the faces. He’d expected that much. What he did not expect was to see Throso. And from the look on his face, he was similarly shocked.

It was all Hilkel could do to keep marching in the welcoming parade. He wanted to break ranks, run to Throso, and-- well, he didn’t know. But that would be ridiculous, to act like a boy, when he is now a man, one grizzled by the years at war. Yet looking at Throso made him feel like a boy again.

After the celebratory feast, Hilkel discreetly asked after Throso, and was told he would be in the stables, tending to the returning horses.

“I did not expect you to still be here when I returned,” Hilkel says when he finds him.

“I did not expect you to return,” Throso answers.

“Then why are you here?”

“In town?”

“In town. And toiling in the stables?”

“I still have family here,” Throso shrugs, pretending it’s a simple question.

“Your potential was unmatched,” Hilkel says softly, “Even with your arm--”

“It is good to see you too, Hilkel,” Throso interrupts dryly.

“And you. It has been a while,” Hilkel says ruefully.

“Yet nothing has changed.”

“I can see that.”

“I was not going to use my skills to train up more fodder for _his_ war,” Throso says, old anger bubbling to the surface, “Not after what he did. A leader like that - no war he waged could be righteous.”

Hilkel shakes his head in disbelief and snaps at him, “So this is all for _spite_? Against a man who died years ago?”

“So I heard. But you did not come back when he died,” Throso’s voice grows soft and quiet, “And I thought--- I thought you would. So we could steal away, like we would have done all those years ago had the threat of him chasing us down not loomed over us.”

“A silly fantasy,” Hilkel says with certainty as though he’d truly dismissed the notion long ago, when really, all these years, it’s kept him warm at night and kept him alive during the day. He has to shout to make himself believe it even for a second, “We are not children anymore! We have not been since--”

“Since your father ruined me, his best young warrior? All to harden you,” Throso says calmly.

“It worked,” Hilkel says regretfully, turning away.

“Are you sure?” Throso asks gently, but in clear challenge, taking several steps towards him.

“Yes,” Hilkel says adamantly, at first. “I am not the same person I was. Not in my soul, not in my skin...” his confidence peels off word by word, “but…”

Throso lays his good hand on Hilkel’s jaw then, forcing him face to him.

“But in my heart…” Hilkel continues at a whisper, meeting Throso’s eyes, “I am seventeen again under your gaze.”

\-----

Jace wakes up on the ground, several particularly frightening and frail looking Silent Brothers looming over him.

“Ow,” Jace says, rubbing his head, and sitting up gingerly, eager to distance himself.

One of the brothers pipes up in his head. _Brother Zachariah will be here soon with a stele. Yours was destroyed._

“Not again,” Jace mumbles, as Brother Zachariah appears on cue.

_You did well to fend off the intruders. You saved Brother Cruso._

“Did you catch them?”

_No. Still, it was most fortunate that you were here._

“Yeah, real lucky,” Jace says. He’s suspicious. One of the intruders said… something he can’t recall... but it had given him an eerie feeling their meeting had not been mere coincidence.

_Sometimes you are in the right place at the right time. There are many secrets this building. The vast majority do not involve you._

“Way to make a guy feel special,” Jace says, frowning as he presses the stele to his iratze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream heavily inspired by Roswell, New Mexico.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the break in posting. We will resume with fortnightly updates on April 25. Remember, you can still join if you want! :)


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